Bed Sheets
by peanut18
Summary: Situations as such called for flinging caution out the window, especially when George was slowly parting her legs with one of his own. She let her head roll back against the floor as his knee continued upwards... utterly sinful. A series of short stories.
1. Chapter 1

**Just an entertaining One-Shot. I've always found odd matches like a twin and Hermione intersting (but Malfoy and Hermione is the bomb)**

**Enjoy (:

* * *

**

**Bed Sheets**

Hermione couldn't stop it. The low sound worked its way up from the bottom of her chest and reverberated through her throat. The moan came out soft, low, and dangerously husky. No one could blame her; any girl would be doing the same if George Weasley was slowly trailing his lips down her neck. How had this happened? Hermione wondered. Was it when he had walked in on her in the bathroom, barely clad in a towel? That had been a week ago and it amazed her how one encounter could spark such strong emotions. The bathroom incident had been followed be never ending apologies and burning cheeks. Afterwards, however, the week had been full of secret looks, unspoken words, and desire. George had obviously been as curious as she, wanting to know the skin that lay beneath each others clothing. Maybe the true attraction had begun when George cornered her in the Burrow's den late the other night. Despite her protests, he had gently run his lips over hers, his breath tickling her skin. The small contact was powerful enough to leave her winded, clinging the front of his shirt. Then the coy bastard had smiled, and walked off to bed, leaving her in a dazed, confused mess.

Although she had to admit it, tonight had been the night where her will power had finally and completely caved. It was inevitable when George had caught her by surprise, sneaking up behind her in the guest bedroom like that. She could huff and stomp her feet all she wanted, but she couldn't deny the fact that George melted something inside of her. He eased open a part she had always kept locked up tight. She'd look back on it and cringe, Hermione knew that much. Later on she would regret allowing things to flare up so quickly, but at the moment she really just didn't care. Situations as such called for flinging caution out the window, especially when George was slowly parting her legs with one of his own. She let her head roll back against the floor as his knee continued upwards. Their position, George's presence over her, showering her neck with his warm attentions, was sinful. Hot, heavy, and sinfully seductive.

George claimed her lips as another loud moan started to rise from her throat. He pressed his knee were she joined and Hermione felt her eyes roll into the back of her head. Dear God, it was unlike anything she had ever felt. The firm, unceasing pressure sent warmth flooding into her limbs, the pleasure in her groin sweet. Hermione shook, fingers digging into the carpet. George had worked his way back down to her collar bone but paused. She looked up at him, confused. Her body was begging, reeling from the loss of his touch. They locked eyes and Hermione felt her heart tighten. Though his unruly hair fell into his face, almost reaching the tip of his nose, she could see his expression. Eyes dark with lust, George gazed out at her from behind the ginger screen.

He was watching her, intently. Suddenly he ground his knee against her. Hermione gasped, cheeks flushing. He smiled; his breathing heavy. He applied the pressure again, liking the reaction he received. When he started to pick up a rhythm, slowing pressing circles against her center, Hermione fought to gain her breath. It was hard to control her body when he was melting her from the inside out. Hermione closed her eyes, unable to stop her back from arching.

George watched as she squirmed underneath him, loving the show she was putting on for him. His lions tightened as she parted her lips, practically begging him take her mouth with his own. He could feel the heat from her apex seeping into his knee. It was tempting to rip off the shorts that graced her body. Her legs had been teasing him all day, shapely and enticing. He wanted to bend down and kiss her, taste her, but he simply couldn't take his eyes off of her. Who knew that Hermione could be so seductive, it was astounding, mainly because he knew she wasn't trying to be. This was pure Hermione, lost in passion, and he was the one giving it to her. George's breath hitched in his chest, Hermione was grinding her hips against his leg. Finally deciding to give a little back, eh? George felt his usual grin tug across his mouth.

Hermione played with the hem of his shirt, shy and unaware of how her cool touch made his skin jump. A delicate finger grazed over one hipbone and George quivered. His jeans felt uncomfortably tight now, the denim restraining him. A deep blush had rising to her cheeks, slowly gaining bravery as George let a deep growl rumble out from his chest. His abdomen twitched as she ran her hands up his chest, pulling his shirt up. Soft, deft fingers explored every inch of his torso, tracing the muscle lines, and softly teasing his navel. She was unwinding him and from the mischievous glint in her eyes, Hermione knew what she was doing. It was very unlike her, that expression, but George found that he liked it. Two could play at that game.

Hermione almost shrieked with George suddenly grabbed her hips, hauling her up onto his lap. The abrupt change in positioning left her winded, dazed. George had her straddling his waist now, his knees firmly keeping her in place. Before she could react, he had her shirt up and over her head. The thin tank fell from his fingers to the ground, forgotten and abandoned. Hermione felt the hot blush spread down to her chest, playing amongst the cleavage produced by her black push up. He was devouring every inch of her with his eyes. Hermione fought the temptation to cover her chest in demur modesty.

She felt breathless as she watched the trade mark Weasley smile light up his features. He looked… delicious. It was the only thing that came to mind. His hair fell to his shoulders in a tousled, tempting mess. The moon light coming in from the window gave his red color and his smooth face a soft appearance, making him look like a celestial being. George was a trickster, reeking havoc on everyone with Fred by his side, but tonight he was something else. It was a side she had never seen, nor expected to see, in her entire life. The jokes were gone, the cocky attitude was gone; this was just George, passionate, desirable, and wanting her.

He was watching her, knowing she liked what she saw. He gave her a heavy, seductive look before pulling his shirt off in one, incredibly sexy move. Hermione's hungry eyes ate up his toned body. Strong arms twined around her bare waist, pulling two eager chests together. She shivered as he brushed his lips along her neck line, coming to a stop at the shell of her ear.

"Come on," George breathed, taking her ear lobe into the hot warmth of his mouth. He teased the soft flesh with his teeth, earning a needing whimper from its owner. Hermione swallowed, beginning to sweat. It felt as though a pool of heat had dropped into her lap. When he finally continued his lips tickled her ear, sending shivers cascading down her back.

"Let's play, Hermione."

The simple phrase broke the dam of urgency that had been building in her chest. With vigor, Hermione claimed his mouth. Soft tongues teased and coaxed each other and lips danced. George busied her with his mouth and took hold of her hips. His palms were firm, each finger caressing her subtle skin. Hermione groaned into his mouth as he pressed her against his aching erection, guiding her by his grip on her hips. Damn clothes, they needed to get rid of the damn clothes. Time began to blur in a frenzy of hot skin on skin, begging lips, moans, and soft whispered nothings.

Her pulse began to pick up its pace as George slipped a finger into the waist line of her shorts, playing with the hem of her underwear. Kissing him, feeling his body against hers was one thing, but to feel George go even further beneath the layers of clothing… a whole new level of awareness opened up to her. Hermione knew what it was like to lay with another. She had experimented with Ron back in their 6th year, but he had been the only one. The times they had been together were few, and Ron hadn't been smooth. He was clumsy in every aspect of love making, unable to know how to please her. Hermione was still naive, never having been filled to the max. Feeling George toy with her underwear raised sudden questions in her mind. Could he do it?

"Take me," she said, her sudden boldness surprising even herself.

George stopped and looked at her, sizing her up. He seemed taken aback as well; the demand seemed foreign coming from the mouth of Hermione Granger. Hermione felt the begging need low in her body, nagging, urgent. She wrapped her arms around the stunned twin and pressed her forehead to his. He smelt fabulous, an intoxicating mix of simple soap and musk. Her lips barely touched his and she looked into his eyes, unashamed and daring. Hermione was certain now, George could please her. This Weasley had already made her feel things that she didn't even know existed. He looked back into her eyes, and as she spoke, she could feel the shiver run through him.

"George, take me. Now," Hermione stressed the last word, rubbing her self against his groin. She had an appetite now that only he could sate.

George didn't wait for her to ask again. With a rush of movement he collected her in his arms and Hermione felt the world tip as he laid her on the bed. The comforter was soft against her bare back, but the softness was nothing compared to the warm kisses George was trailing down her legs, bracing a delicate ankle on his shoulder. She'd never been so breathless; each kiss closer intensified the need growing between her legs. George made it to her upper thigh and she thought she'd die in delirium as the stubble on his jaw brushed the sensitive area.

Then he did something that would have made her cry out if it weren't for the other inhabitants in the house. George nuzzled his face between her legs, cupped her with his mouth, and then blew. The intense, moist heat flooding against her was almost too much. Her heart would break out of her chest from all its pounding if he kept this up.

"God… George. That's-," Hermione stammered.

"Amazing?" he supplied, looking up at her with a wink; the charming bugger. Hermione couldn't help but give him a smile. He blew again through the kaki material, getting another fabulous reaction.

George looked up at her and watched as she rolled her head back. He'd never seen her as the passionate type. He never expected his brother's friend to be so incredible hot, chest heaving, cleavage threatening to spill out of its confines. He could help her with that, George grinned, visions of tearing the bra away filling his mind. First, however, he had something at hand to take care of. With one hand gripping the pocket of her shorts, George tugged at her buckle with his teeth. His other hand worked furiously on his own bindings, attempting to rid himself of the offending material. The button came undone and he pulled the zipper down. The musk of arousal that filled his senses almost pushed him over the edge right then and there. God, it felt like he would explode.

He added her shorts to the growing pile of discarded clothing, his jeans followed quickly and both heaved a sigh as skin touched skin. Heat travels well through the thin fabrics of underwear, and both George and Hermione were enjoying that fact immensely.

Their heavy breathing, pants, moans, and sighs filled the room as the two explored the newly exposed places. George reveled in the feeling of Hermione running her hands up and down his back. She arched up against him, impatient. It was incredibly tempting to just take her, to be inside her and to be surrounded by the warmth. But George wanted to take his time, slowly memorizing every inch of her body.

With gentle fingers, he slid the straps of her bra down her graceful shoulders. Hermione sighed with each butterfly kiss he placed on her chest. He was so soft, so attentive that Hermione didn't notice her bra hitting the floor until George took an erect nipple into his mouth. She felt jarred. It was surreal, the feeling the sparked down into her stomach and groin, stoking up the fire to all new heights. Ron had never done this; he'd never taken the time or the effort. George was amazing, the things he did to her body. It seemed as though a never ending stream of sounds kept bubbling out from her, not that it bothered her. If anything the noises she made seemed to encourage him.

Hermione ran her fingers through his hair, clenching her fists as he twirled the sensitive nub between his teeth and tongue. She could feel his desire pressing against her thigh and she shifted her hips, attempting to catch it. A sense of satisfaction filled her as the contact left him winded on her chest. He felt warm and hard against her tender flesh, and she marveled briefly at how different, yet equally good, his knee had felt in its place. Hermione could feel every inch of him, desperately wanting all of him. George kissed her chin and lips while gently teasing her other nipple with his forefinger and thumb. She had to do something. Hermione had to return the pleasure that George was so generously showering on her.

George took in a deep shuttering breath as Hermione snaked her hand in between their shaking bodies, grasping his manhood. George had fallen out of his boxers, and Hermione was shocked at how smooth to the touch he was. He was so hard, yet softer than anything she'd ever laid her fingers on. She pulled, carefully pumping her hand across him. George's hips jerked, grinding into her hand. Losing control, he attacked her ear, flicking the shell with his tongue. His breathing had become erratic, heavy and loud in the tunnel of her ear.

She couldn't stop the gasp that escaped from her lips when he pulled away, unexpected and sudden. For the third time that night, George captured her eyes with his own, a dark gaze full of want and of unspoken words. He really didn't need to say anything; Hermione wanted anything he had to give her. And, oh, how she wanted to give right back to him. She was giddy as he twined his fingers into the soft cotton of her underwear, pulling them down over her legs and finally away. With shaking hands she did him the favor of ridding him of his boxers. Her whole body was trembling now, anticipating.

George gave her a look, concern flashing over his expression.

"Are you okay?" he asked, straddling her on his knees.

"Perfectly," she replied, reaching up to cup his buttocks with both hands.

Limbs mingled together, Hermione's smooth legs wrapped around George's waist, drawing him closer. He twined his fingers with her own, pinning Hermione's arms above her head. She was completely open and ready for him, and he was prepared to give her the world. They paused, George pressing at her opening. Then with eyes closed, George slid into her, sheathing her to the hilt. Someone moaned, a deep noise speaking perfectly of the pleasure coursing through them, but neither could tell which had made it. George drew out, savoring the slow motion before thrusting back in. Tension built up in their muscles, working their way up as George picked up the pace. Hermione lifted her hips, matching him in the rhythm.

Hermione was seeing white; it was a feeling so strong her teeth were tingling. She hadn't known how good it could be, how beautifully fulfilling it was to have someone inside. She tightened her legs grip around his waist, pulling him closer. Hermione stared at his face in wonder; the George Weasley above her was raw with emotion. His eyes closed, forehead worked into a frown of concentration. Sweat beaded at his temple, his lips parted. She felt her eyes roll back as his speed quickened; their hips seemed glued together, unable to leave each other. Hip bone bumped hip bone, hot skin slid against skin as their lips claimed each other, ravenous.

She couldn't stop making noise. Every moan, every mewl and whimper that rose from her lips was involuntary, created from George's attention to her body. She was rising, Hermione could feel her body starting to tense along with George's. She could feel the weight of something over the horizon, rushing up on her with every thrust of his hips. It was exciting and terrifying, not knowing how it would come. Then it crashed down on her body like an earth quake. Feeling her muscles seize up and clench around George was mind blowing, leaving her completely blank for a floating, blissful moment. Another thrust and George shuddered, suddenly biting onto her shoulder as his body let out a single, powerful spasm.

There was silence that followed, their orgasm leaving both exhausted. George suckled at her shoulder, kissing the mark he had left. Her body felt impossibly light, content to lay there in bed with George over her, still inside. Complete relaxation flowed through her veins as George ran a finger along her jaw line, gently tracing over her bottom lip. She opened her mouth, allowing George to replace his finger with his warm mouth. The kiss was deep, satisfied. He pulled out and laid down next to her, tugging Hermione close to his side. She made herself comfortable, nestled against him. They fit like a mold. She looked at him. He had his eyes closed, one arm tucked behind his head, and a small smile playing across his lips. He looked so peaceful, at ease. Hermione opened her mouth.

"Shh," he whispered, placing a finger sensually over her lips.

It was if to say 'don't ruin the moment' and she found herself understanding, what better way than to fall asleep in his arms in satisfied silence. Hermione smiled, placing her head against his chest. George sighed, using his free hand to cup her soft bottom, anchoring her against him. It felt incredibly intimate, more so than the passionate love they had just shared. George wanted to sleep with her in his arms. It warmed Hermione's heart and she let her eyes shut, listening to the sound of his even breathing, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest. His steady heart beat, thumping against her ear served as a lullaby, coaxing her to sleep. Hermione let out a content sigh, sleep began to pull her away.

Spending the rest of summer vacation at the Burrow just got a bit more interesting.

* * *

**peanut18**


	2. Chapter 2

**Authors Note:**

Hi guys. I want to start off with a big thank you for the reviews! They meant a lot. I have a question for you all. Should I expand this one-shot into a full blown story? Another idea I had was to keep adding; only it would be a collection of short stories. Each chapter would be something new like a romance, sweet moments, action, drama, etc.

I really want to know what you guys think, so let me know! If enough people respond to this, I'll keep on writing (:

Sincerely,

peanut18


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey Guys, **

**Yes I know that it has been forever since I posted anything on this... lets just say things have been VERY busy for me lately. Summer travel and move in to college stuff. But now that I've settled in I'm back! In the last chapter I posted I asked if I should continue the story or just make a series of one shots. Well... the first story Bed Sheets I felt was good were I had left it. So instead this is going to be a collection of George and Hermione stories. Some will be one shots and some will be multiple chapters. But hey! You get to see them fall in love in different ways and places! Some will be funny while others be be a bit more on the dramatic side. I'll place little warnings at the tops to let you all know if you're about to read something humerous or a drama. **

**I hope you enjoy!**

**

* * *

**

**The Stupidity of Hermione Granger **

**PART ONE**

This was stupid, completely and utterly moronic… at least that's what Hermione kept telling herself. She clenched her jaw as a loathsome blush crept up her neck and finally settled as a rosy pink on her cheeks. Thankfully, praise to Merlin, her embarrassment was hidden in the dark of night. A cool breeze danced its way up the perfectly tended lawns, sashayed amongst the branches, and finally ended its performance by tearing anonymous leaves from their branches and up into the star studded sky. Hermione watched as the black shapes fluttered up into the labyrinth of stars and painfully deep space. She felt the classic feeling of dwindling against the vastness of the night sky but as beautiful as it was, the view did nothing to aid her mood.

With a lip curled in contempt, Hermione tore her gaze angrily away and glared at the glorious lake in front of her. The surface of the water expanded before her like a solid sheet of glass, a mirror reflecting the majestic sky above that enticed her to step on and walk amongst the stars. She would have been tempted to place the bare sole of her foot against that flawless surface lapping at her feet... that is until the peace and momentary placidity of the moment was shattered by a giggle and splash.

The spray of water that hit Hermione's face brought the situation crashing against her once again. Dread filled her stomach as the flustered brunette watched as Ginny's nude form rose from the lake's reflective waters.

_Skinny-dipping._

The very mention of the activity brought a horror stricken grimace to the young witch's face. How had she allowed herself to become involved in the ridiculous activity? If she had any intelligence at all she would march back up to the castle and sneak her way back into her warm bed where she belonged. Hermione shuddered at the idea of being caught out of bed at this hour… let alone being caught out in the ground's lake… naked. Terrifying worst-case-scenarios flashed through her mind, the panic meter in her chest steadily rising as Lavender Brown joined the party, flinging her bra behind her in complete and joyous abandon. _Dear God, this was madness._

"Join the fun, Hermione!" Ginny called from her waist-deep spot in the water. The young red-head's lean figure was highlighted in the moon's rays, her small curves hinting at her blooming womanhood.

"I'll just stay on solid ground and keep the lookout, shall I?" Hermione said from the shore though, to her frustration, the words came out as more of plea than anything else.

"You bloody chicken," Hannah said as she walked up next Hermione, sending the shy bookworm a pointed stare. "Get your clothes off and get in the blasted water."

Hannah furthered her point by pulling down her jeans. Hermione twisted the hem of her sweater in her fists, anxiety wearing her down.

"You promised," Lavender called from the water.

"Yes, you did agree," Hannah observed, placing both fists on her hips. She frowned before continuing, "You've spent six years in the school without really cutting free, this is our end of year fling, remember? Come on, its time to live on the edge for once… or are you going to back out on us?"

Hermione tried to swallow the guilt her friends were lodging down her throat. She had agreed, but at the time the idea had seemed eons away. The proposal had come up during lunch at the beginning of the year and to be honest, Hermione had assumed everyone would forget about it. It had been nothing more than playful banter, right? She had moved the idea to the back of her mind and had completely forgotten about it. That is, until Lavender announced after dinner that tonight would be the night.

_Bloody Hell_.

Everyone was silent as they watched their reluctant friend battled with her inner inhibitions. She shuffled her feet against the muddy ground and took a deep breath. Finally giving in, Hermione pulled her sweater up and over her head. As the garment fell to the ground, her heart fluttered. Was she really going to do this? The girls all cheered as her plain white tee fell to join its companion. Hermione allowed a nervous smile to flit across her face. She was actually going to do this. Giddy nerves allowed her to pulled the remaining clothes from her body without too much thought. When the air finally hit her bare skin, she felt her entire body tremble. She felt fear tug at her mind as she stole a glance up at the castle. All seemed well and a sudden thrill of excitement caused another smile to pull its way across her face. So this was what it was like to step out of her boundaries.

"No ones going to see you! Get in the water!" Ginny laughed from the water before splashing Hannah in the face. "You too Miss Abbot!"

With an impish grin, Hannah strolled into the water with grace and charm only to join the water fight seconds later. Hermione hesitated. She was already naked, might as well go all the way. Fighting her jumpy nerves, Hermione stepped into the water and shivered at the sudden cold.

"It's freezing!" she exclaimed, holding her arms about her as gooseflesh rose on her skin.

"Yea, well you kinda have to get into it all at one," Ginny said as she waded over. "Otherwise it takes forever!"

Hermione shrieked in indignant surprise as Ginny splashed a handful of bone-chilling water in her face. She stepped back in shock, but the algae covered stones provided her with no footing. The unfortunate girl slipped and landed in water in a torential splash. The adrenaline rush left her breathless as she scrambled to her feet. Her skin was crawling as the cool air added its own abuse to her flesh. Oh, revenge would be so sweet.

"_You_-," She started, preparing to send a title wave of icy water flying at her friend.

The expression on the young Weasly's face, however, stopped her in her tracks. Following the horror-stricken gaze, Hermione felt her excitement crumble to dust as a figure marched its way down from the front steps of Hogwarts. The billowing robes suggested none other than a professor.

"Holy shit," Lavender cursed from somewhere behind.

They. Were. So. SCREWED.

Mayhem ensued as the females scattered, splashing water about as they fled the scene. Panic took complete control of Hermione's mind as she took off. She couldn't get caught. Terror reined her mind as she thought of the damage her reputation would suffer, the humiliation she'd have to endure. Senseless to anything but the demanding need to escape, Hermione reached dry earth and dashed. Trees and shadows flew past as she ran, as low and silent as her cumbersome feet would allow.

Her mind was on autopilot.

Run.

Dodge.

Hide...

God... Find a place to _hide!_

She finally slid to the ground behind a large oak tree, cowering beneath the deep shadows the giant cast. Her heart hammered in her ears, and it was some time before she could gain control over her erratic breathing. Her chest heaved up and down with rib cracking force as she scanned the grounds. Hermione couldn't control her limbs and they shook violently as she tried to cling to the bark in front of her. In the poor light her knuckles seemed alien, stark white as they clawed into knots. A lone dark figure stood at the lakes shore, using a lit wand to illuminate the surrounding area.

A cold wind blew up from behind, rousing a violent shudder from her bare body. Hermione gasped aloud as a realization hit her. She'd split without her _fucking_ clothes! She'd never felt such a fool as she did now, crouched behind a tree with nothing on but her birthday suit. A furious blush burned her face and she feebly covered her breasts with her hands, utter humiliation bending her too the earth. She was going to _kill_ Lavender Brown for ever having brought this damn outing up. As far as she was concerned, the full blame of her situation fell on that damn witch's shoulders.

A small voice emerged in the back of her mind, pointing out that she never should have agreed to such antics. Anger squashed the voice of reason like an insect. Hermione was in no mood for reason at the moment. She had never been so stupid in her entire life. Gnawing on her bottom lip, Hermione sneaked another look around the aged tree's trunk. The professor was making his way along the lakes edge. His wand shot over the water's surface and some of the light reflected back, catching his face. Shoulder length black hair and pale skin. He stalked along like a predatory beast searching for his student population-based prey. _Snape_.

Hermione shrank back in fear as her heart rate speed up ten fold. She'd rather wrestle with a blast-ended skrewt while drenched in gasoline than be caught by Snape. She was naked! Snape was the last person on earth she would have ever thought would see her like this. Snape wasn't the type to keep quiet about it, either. What humiliation she had been worrying about earlier now seemed petty, her image would be completely destroyed under Snape's spiteful tongue. He continued his trek along the lake and she craned her neck to watch as he progressed. Perhaps he would just pass on? It was as if he had read her thoughts. Aghast, Hermione felt a silent scream fill her chest as the despicable Potion's Master switched course, a course that would lead him directly to her tree.

No, no, no, no, no!

Why couldn't he just go the other way?

Her body shook with blind panic as her most demanding professor made his way in her direction, stalking his prey with uncanny accuracy.

She was doomed.

It was too late to run as any other cover was too far away. She would be seen if she dashed. Nightmares of being expelled danced in her head and, weakened; Hermione sank further to the earth and gathered her limbs about her in the fetal position. She wanted to cover as much of her as possible, anything to save at least a scrap of her dying honor. If only she could become part of the ground. Disappearing from his sight would be a miracle, but as she lay shivering on the ground, waiting for doom to crash upon her like the nearing footsteps, a shred of hope occurred to her strained mind. Maybe she would be lost in the shadows, and he would over look her. The thought brought warmth to her and seemed to fall on her naked form like an encompassing blanket.

Maybe, just maybe.

Her heart stopped as Snape's light rounded the tree trunk. She screwed her eyes shut, unable to watch, as her worst fears became reality. She clung to herself and fought the sob that wanted to rip from her lungs. Snape stood mere feet away as his light fell on her. Bright light illuminated the area around her and she waited for the lighting to strike. But... It never came and to her complete disbelief, Snape made his way away from her tree, stalking across the lawn.

Was she dreaming? Had she fainted on the spot and was now hallucinating? She remained on the ground and waited with bated breath. Until, finally, she could wait no longer, Hermione peeked open her eyes and glanced about. She looked up just in time to see Snape's cloak tail disappear behind the castle's large doors. She'd been saved, but how?

Letting out her pent up breath in a relieved sob, Hermione jolted to discover that from the waist down she had no body. Biting down the natural scream that would arise from anyone, she reached out a hand… and felt the folds of silky cloth.

_An invisibility cloak? _

Years of proper etiquette could not have kept her mouth from gaping open in stupefied disbelief. Where had it come from? She searched the area around her franticly; her damp locks slapping her face. There was no one, she was completely alone with an invisibility cloak that seemed to have materialized from anywhere.

Her lips quivering, Hermione held the precious cloak to her chest and finally let the exhausted tears fall.

* * *

The cheery sunlight that infiltrated the Great Hall insulted her mood as she wearily sank into her seat next to Ginny. The normal breakfast chatter filled the air and provided Hermione with at least that sense of normalcy. She hadn't been able to sleep at all when she'd arrived back at her dorm. How could she when the mystery of last night kept buzzing about in her head? She scowled at her eggs even while she spooned them onto her plate. The main reason for her foul mood was, however, her missing clothes. It was if to add insult to injury when she'd returned to the lake draped in the cloak only to find all her clothes gone.

Shaking her head, Hermione looked up to find Ginny flashing her a huge grin.

"What?" Hermione couldn't keep the venom from her voice.

"How'd you escape? Lavender and I snuck in through the Herbology entrance. That git, Snape, was guarding the front entrance like a hawk. Hannah ran all the way to the Quiddich pitch and snatched a broom. She got in through the astronomy tower," Ginny whispered, leaning in close.

"It's none of your business. I never should have listened to you!" Hermione hissed as she stabbed at her sausage.

Ginny merely shrugged and, seeing that Hermione would only bite this morning, moved over to where Harry was talking animatedly with Ron. Suddenly unexplainably full, Hermione shoved her plate away, snatched up her school bag and walked away with an irritated flip of her hair (which, by the way, was horribly fizzed from the past nights excursion).

She made it to the main staircase, planning to distract herself in tomorrow's Transfiguration homework, when a voice pulled her back. Hermione turned to watch as George Weasly loped his way across to the staircase, something tucked under his arm. The twin flashed her a smile. Some how the mischievous glint in his hazel eyes made her uneasy.

"What is it?" she asked, anxious to get away to herself and good, solid, _normal_ parchment.

"I wanted to give you this," He said, tossing the bundle into her fumbling hands.

"What-," Hermione stopped short as she recognized what she held. Her clothes from last night where now neatly bundled together in her trembling fingers. She gaped up at George as the wheels began to churn.

_She hadn't been alone last night._

"You… I-," Hermione felt as though she would faint flat out on the steps. A horrid blush burnt crimson on her cheeks and then spread to her ears.

"I'll be needing that cloak back whenever you get the chance. Harry will kill me if I lose it," George said, as if everything were normal. Brown eyes glinting, his tone didn't match the expression in his eyes, the sneaky little devil. Hermione gulped nervously, clutching her returned clothes to her chest like something precious.

George turned and began to casually make his way back down the stairs. His ginger locks bounced about his shoulders as he stepped, humming all the way. Hermione wanted to speak, to say anything to express the confusion, gratitude, and anger that all clashed together inharmoniously in her chest. But before she could, the twin turned on his heels and looked up at her. The light caught in from the stained glass window cast a softening glow on his face, striking his already handsome features. Hermione shook.

"Oh, and by the way, Hermione," he said, the smoothness in his voice made her heart skip. He flashed out that smile only he and his counterpart could pull off.

Silence stretched between them for a tensed second.

"Nice arse."

If it was possible, Hermione's mouth dropped open further. Flabbergasted, she watched as he ran an approving gaze up and down her body and felt herself going, if possible, a darker shade of crimson.

He winked.

Hermione was left standing on the stairs, watching as her savior walked away and _disappeared_ through the doors to the Great Hall. She didn't notice as Lavender came down from behind and stood by her side. Throwing a casual arm around her shoulders, she grinned.

"Wild night, eh?" she laughed, hoping to God Hermione wouldn't be too angery. Really, she needed her help on the final essay she had to write.

Hermione said nothing at first, working her fingers into the clothes she held to her chest. She was transfixed with the Great Hall doors.

"Uh... Hermione?" Lavender took a step away, eyeing her friend nervously.

"He... saw me naked."

"_WHAT?_"

* * *

Tell me what you think! Feedback will help me finalize ideas for part 2.

peanut


	4. Chapter 4

**I'd like to start off by thanking everyone who reviewed!!! You guys are great! A few people asked me if there was going to be a part two. Well here it is! I'd had it stored in the back of my mind for a while, sorry for the wait. Don't worry theres going to be a part three and that'll most likely be the last installment. Then there'll be another yummy story (:**

**Enjoy! **

* * *

**The Stupidity of Hermione Granger**

Part Two

"Did you here-,"

"-were swimming in the lake last night!"

"Who was it?"

"_I _think it was that jerk Ra-,"

"You heard about it, right?"

"Of course. I heard that it was couple having wild sex-,"

"So let me get this straight, it was five first years and Professor Snape giving swimming lessons?"

"I bet it was Kristy and Daniel… you know how they are."

"I heard that they got expelled."

"Wait, wait, wait… it was seven first years, three house elves, and Harry Potter all swimming and _then_ Professor Snape came out and gave them floaties?"

"Apparently who ever it was got caught and has detention for a month."

"Really?"

"Yea."

"They were floatie rafts?"

"No way."

"That's what I heard at least."

George leaned back and enjoyed his morning pumpkin juice as rumors flurried over everyone's breakfast. He grinned into his cup; the day had already taken an auspicious start. There was something truly delicious in knowing the truth while the rest of Hogwarts blundered about in amusing ignorance. Some of the tall tales he was hearing were ridiculously over the top. The kid going on about Snape and the floaties looked like he was about to accidentally inhale his fork.

Oh, how he loved it.

Honestly, the day Snape handed out floaties to little first years and Harry Potter would be the day he'd suck on old hag toes. Perhaps that's why the misinformed fool looked like he was going to choke, it was in disbelief that the evil monster of a teacher that lurked below was actually capable of such a thing. Not that it mattered. None of it was true anyways. It would probably stay that way too, if he knew Hermione well enough. There'd be no way that she'd allow the truth to rear its hideous head into the schools public circle. Ginny, George shuddered at the thought of his naked sister, wouldn't want anyone to know she was skinny dipping either. Mom would _kill_ her if she ever found out.

George screwed his eyes shut and attempted to eradicate that particular image from his mind. That had been an unwelcome shock, seeing his own flesh and blood flouncing about in the water with nothing on. The older brother part of him wanted to scold her, wrap her up in a nun's outfit, and padlock the zipper. Sending her off to a convent would probably be a good idea too... a convent up on a mountain surrounded by water with no males for hundreds of miles. Mom would love him for it. Besides Ginny, Lavender Brown and Hannah Abbot had been easy on the eyes. Last night had been quite enjoyable.

Although the biggest shock of all had to be Hermione and her cute-

"George!"

He looked up, momentarily caught off guard as Harry slid into the seat next to him.

"Harry," George acknowledged, nodding his head before poking at the potato on his plate. A short silence stretched out between them before Harry finally broke it.

"Oh come on, you're not honestly going to make me wait, are you?" Harry picked at a dent in the table impatiently, his voice pleading.

George sighed, running a hand through his shaggy mane, feigning disappointment. He drew out the tension and Harry twitched in his seat, uneasy. The only news George had to tell was good, but it was irresistible to mess with people's heads.

Okay, enough fun.

"Nah, tell the boys I got it. Snatched a box of fire whiskey right out from under the bastards nose, thanks to the invisibility cloak of yours," George said, cracking into a smile.

"Brilliant. Enough for us all to split evenly like we agreed, yeh?" Harry said as he waved Ron and Fred over.

"Ah, has our gallant knight returned in victory?" Fred asked as he plopped down next to his twin.

"When have I ever failed before?" George asked, holding his arms out in a defensive move, a wide grin fitting perfectly across his freckled face. He shook his hair out of his eyes and leaned in. "It's in my trunk, a beautiful case holding 24 bottles of Britain's best fire whiskey. Six bottles for each of us, mates."

"The Hogshead will rue the day it threw the Weasley twins out of its bar!" Fred crowed, elated.

George leaned back and basked in his victory as his twin clapped him on the shoulder. Last night had been an adventure for sure and he had certainly been rewarded, part from the alcohol waiting up in his room and partly from the fresh memories still dancing in his mind.

His bubble was suddenly popped when Harry spoke up.

"So when can I get my cloak back? I kinda need it tonight."

Hermione's horrified expression swam before his eyes as he thought back on their brief encounter that morning. Eh… perhaps he hadn't thought far enough in advance on that one, Hermione might avoid him for a while. Still, the fire whiskey wouldn't have been a reality if is hadn't been for Harry and his cloak. He'd have to go to her then.

"It's in my trunk as well, I'll get it to you when I get the chance."

He was never flustered. George's quick wit was something he treasured. After all, it had never let him down when shoving Slytherins into enchanted cupboards and hurling hexes at wankers. It had taken a lot of work to become part of this generation's most infamous pair of troublemakers, much to his mother's dismay. This was his last year and he was on the top of his game, now was the time to make the best of it.

Then why did the idea of getting the cloak back from Hermione make something inside his chest squirm in unease?

"Bloody Hell, " he murmured, stopping halfway up the main stairway to look out onto Hogwarts' perfectly trimmed lawns.

The large expanse of green grass seemed to stretch on for miles, pushing the Forbidden Forest far out of reach. Large pines and oaks congregated in groups, casting down shade for anyone taking advantage of the bright day. Then there was the lake, almost out of view as it peeked out from behind its shield of trees. Snape must have just caught a glimpse of movement down on the water. Sunlight caught the surface and flashed out, catching his eyes in a painful glare. George shielded his face, moving on.

"You didn't seem to mind last night," he grumbled, climbing the stairway heading towards the only place he could think of.

Hermione was practically married to the library.

He never would have expected Hermione capable of skinny-dipping. It was beyond surprising. He could still remember feeling his eyes grow wide as she had pulled that sweater up and over her head. Her shirt had ridden up with it, revealing the curves that he'd never been able to see before… or rather, that he had never taken the time to stop and appreciate. She'd always been Ron's little friend, the annoying one that constantly stuck her head in and lectured them on proper conduct. Perhaps that was why she'd always seemed like a child to him, distant. Yet last night, he'd seen nothing but full blown, honest to God, glorious womanhood.

Who knew she'd be hiding the most gorgeous ass he'd ever seen underneath that school skirt of hers? George was amazed that he hadn't cried out in shock when she had pulled her jeans down, showing off a pair of cute, low-riding panties. Then of course when those panties had slid down her thighs and hit the ground… George felt his groin heat up. He paused, placing his hand on the railing and gaining control of his thoughts. There was nothing wrong with admiring the curves his brother's crush had to offer, in his mind at least, but springing up a tent in deminville during broad daylight was not on his to-do list.

Why had he gone by the lake last night anyways? Their plan had been a simple one: get out of the grounds using the cloak, sneak into Hogshead's cellar, snatch the biggest case he could carry, and get back. He'd managed to get to stage three of their operation, but the for some reason he went by the lake only to be beckoned by the sound of splashing water and female voices. At least he knew all the secret ways in so he was able to make his way back into the castle without the cloak. Hermione owed him big time. A devilish thought entered his brain; he could use that to his advantage.

No, messing around with Hermione would only make things complicated.

The library air was thick with tepid silence as he entered. The only soul he could see through the maze of shelves and books was the tip of Ms. Venchuelaz's ridiculous feathered hat. The Assistant Librarian was relatively new and was by far the most bizarre person he had ever met, which was saying something. As he rounded the mess of books that hid the main desk from view, the plump woman could be seen scribbling away, humming to herself as she updated the libraries catalog. She was a sweet lady, kissing the cheeks of every child that made its way past the library doorframe. Her obsession with tall and overly decorated hats was distracting, George didn't know how anyone could study when the lady walked about with half a peacock stuck on her head. A floorboard creak underfoot and she popped up with a surprised gasped.

"Georgie!" she cried out in surprise, her heavy Hispanic accent giving his name an interesting sound.

Oh God, here came the kissing.

After her treatment, his cheeks almost matched the tint of his hair. Great. Venchuelaz stepped back and gave him a wide smile.

"Love the hat today," he said, pointing at today's choice of plumage. It wasn't as tall as some of the ones she owned, but this hat was adorned with large jewels embedded in a bed of brown and cream hawk feathers.

"Oh, thank you," she blushed, reaching up to primp the plumage. "What can I do for you today?'

"Actually I was wondering if Hermione had stopped in this morning," George said, craning his neck to search the stacks within eye reach.

"_That_ busy bee? Of course, she was in here about 30 minutes ago. I tell her she should go easier on herself, nothing but work, work, and more work. She never listens though," she said, turning back to her quill and chart. She reached out a heavily ringed hand and pulled an old volume off the awaiting stack. "Today she seemed different, maybe she was sick 'cause her face was red and she seemed _really_ unfocused."

George grinned.

"And then Professor Sprout came in, all flustered- she always comes in to talk to me- and said that she need help. Was I on my break? Well, obviously not, but she really needed help on repotting Hutzpoxels. Hermione looked like she needed some fresh air so I sent Sprout in her direction. I mean, the girl wasn't even writing on her parchment so I assumed she couldn't be that busy."

"So…. Hermione is replanting…"

"Hutzpoxels,"

"Hutzpoxels, thanks. So she's at the Green Houses then?" George asked, edging towards making his exit.

"I guess so," she replied, shuffling around to a new chart.

George trudged his way to the Green Houses, a frown growing heavy on his forehead. This was annoying. A part of him wished he had never gone by the lake… but the better half was glad he had saved her from imminent Snape-ish Doom. Still, had he made a mistake in seeking her out and letting her know that it had in fact been him last night? It certainly changed things between them now, especially after he had made it clear he had liked what he had seen.

Really, George, you're brilliant.

He couldn't initiate anything between them because of who she was. Messing with Hermione, if she would even let him, would only make trouble between Ron, himself, and her on a level that he really had no desire to encounter. It was a double edged blade, hooking up with her wasn't an option and now they were forever sentenced to being awkward around each other. He let out a few curses under his breath.

George's fuming suddenly came to an abrupt halt as he rounded the door to the first green house.

Hermione Granger was bent over a crate, her sleeves rolled up, skirt riding, and ignorantly offering him an impressive view. The shape of her buttocks was clearly visible from the tightening of her skirt as she bent, retrieving a hutzpoxel or whatever the hell it was. She was pissed; her shoulders were tight and muttering soon reached his ears. She stood and leaned over to place an unfortunate looking plant on the hefty wooden table next to her. She bent again…

And according to physics her skirt corresponded, further than before.

George leaned against the doorframe and observed, touching his tongue to the tip of one of his canine teeth, an intense expression washing over his face. His hands would fit perfectly over those cute little-

"What are you doing here?!" Hermione horrified voice broke him from his trance. He looked up to see Hermione staring at him, her arms crossed in front of her chest in a small, defensive gesture.

"What can I say, I've taken to following you around," George said without missing a beat, casually striding forward and hopping up on the table, crossing one leg over the other.

He bent back on his hands and took another look at her. Her normal, pressed white shirt was smudged with dirt. Her sleeves were wrinkled where she had bunched up the cloth and her top most buttons were undone. From this angle he could see straight down and admire her cleavage. God, Hermione Granger just seemed to be oozing sex the past 24 hours.

He flashed her a toothy grin.

"What do you want?" she asked, reaching for another pot and ignoring his previous statement.

"Something's come up and I'll be needing the cloak back," he said, casually slumping a shoulder.

She stiffened in mid-bend. A cough to clear her throat later she'd regained composure and calmly extracted another plant. She didn't look at him but instead started to jiggle the hutzpoxel by its base, loosening the dirt. George watched, waiting.

"It's in my bag," Hermione flicked her head in its direction, never taking her eyes from her work. Mere seconds ago she had been emotional and wide open. Now she was withdrawn, clamped shut. Somehow it seemed fitting.

Something suddenly curdled and turned sour in his stomach. Things were much more enjoyable when she reacted openly. This guarded demeanor she had now suddenly erected put things in a different light, the mood more dour and unpleasant. She was upset. Obviously.

Damn females and their raging emotions.

He sighed and got off the table, his mood plummeting with each motion he took. Her soft leather bag was tossed carelessly on the floor by her robe. It was heavily worn from six years of use, the shoulder straps starting to fray. George lifted the bag and grimaced at the ghastly weight. Lord only knew how many books she had crammed in there. He placed it on the table and pulled it open and began to rummage through the seven-no- eight books she had. Blimey, one book was his strict limit and even that was pushing it. The warm scent of ink and paper drifted up to his nose as he searched. It was a simple, practical smell. Did she smell like this herself?

He was momentarily distracted as the idea of finding that out occupied his mind, until the soft silk of the cloak brushed against his stilled fingers. He snapped back to life. Gotcha. Now time to make a hasty exit before she got pissy. He folded the cloak and tucked it safely in his shirt.

"George."

He didn't want to, this thing had lost its amusement, but he turned in her direction despite the foreboding filling his chest.

…Women. God, where was the 'Oh thank you for saving my stuck up ass, George. Let me snog you crazy to make up for it." Girls were so ungrateful.

"Wha-," George choked on his playful words as he met her eyes… eyes that happened to be a mere foot from his.

She'd come up behind without him noticing. He swallowed uncomfortably as he straightened his shoulders. Come on, pal, turn on the Weasley charm and wit.

"Yeesss?" he asked, drawing out the note and quirking an eyebrow.

She frowned.

Then looked away.

And to his confusion, she smiled, a blush coloring her face.

"What _were_ you doing out there, last night, anyways?" She finally asked, shifting her feet and meeting his eyes.

"That, my dear, is my secret," he purred and in a male driven urge, leaned in.

Hermione didn't look upset or frustrated. Instead her bottom lip disappeared as she nibbled at it nervously. A small gesture yet, from his point of view, incredibly sexy. She lowered her eyes and dug the toe of her toe into the dirt. Their bodies were close; close enough that George leaned in further and took a deep breath in. His nose filled with an earthy scent. It was a good smell. Clean soap, the dirt from the green house, and something soft and sweet that was unbearably alluring.

"Thank you… for what you did."

Hermione Granger was acting in a way he'd never before observed, bashful and girly… because of his proximity. He didn't even want to delve into what had caused her sudden change in heart; all he cared about was that he liked it.

"I think you owe me more than that," he said, letting a deep chuckle rumble up his rib cage.

Her hair brushed his lips as she raised her head abruptly, a retort ready to shoot back in flames. She had a tongue of venom when she wanted. George wasn't about to give her the chance.

He was so terrible.

He caught her off guard, cupping both hands around her face and swallowing any words she would have spoken. Open mouth met mouth as he nipped at her bottom lip, caressing her lips with his own, making her tremble with a series of hot kisses that she couldn't refuse. Her breath was warm against his face as she began to respond, meeting his attentions. That was good, George wasn't sure he'd be able to recover quick enough if she had pushed him away in disgust. His appetite flared like a torch as she gasped into his open mouth, taking in his breath in an intimate way that had him wrapping a strong arm around her waist.

Things began to blur as their lips began to pick up, building into a hungry speed that surprised and left them both breathless. A ball of heat was building in his stomach; his mind simplified into feral, lust driven thoughts. Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, intensifying the passion as George drove his fingers through her hair. Neither could remember how this had started and neither cared. What were mere seconds began to seem like minutes and were slowly starting to spin into an endless void. All that was present in the front of his mind was her body heat mixing with his. A squirm of excitement shot straight to his groin as she tentatively stroked his tongue. The soft, slick texture was inviting and had his hand shooting from her lower back to grip the soft flesh of her bottom.

A low growl filled his throat only to be outmatched by the moan that broke from Hermione's lips. Her head titled back against his hand as he ravaged her curves. Through the haze that had filled his vision, George turned his attack to the smooth skin of her throat. He tasted her with hot, searing, wet kisses that drew more delicious sounds from her swollen lips. The slow rhythm their bodies had picked up left both with a dizzying rush. Hips ground against hips in an ancient human need that couldn't be ignored. A heavy gasp escaped unwittingly from his chest as her body ground against his need. He pulled her cooing mouth into a whirlwind of lust, demanding everything her lips and tongue could offer.

Somehow he knew deep down that this was going to stop, but George was trying to ignore it, pretending that that part of reality didn't exist. However the sudden resounding crash of wooden crates jolted them both apart. George stumbled from the sudden change in contact as Hermione darted way to a safe distance. Professor Sprout had entered, placing more hutzpoxel-laden crates on the ground. Thank God the woman was oblivious to everything.

George made a quick exit during the distraction. The moment had been lost.

* * *

What'd you guys think? Let me know!

3 peanut


	5. Chapter 5

Readers,

First off I'd like to apologize for taking so long to update this. Life has been... well terrible. It has taken me a while to get things back on track but now I'm back. I hope that you all enjoy this final installment of this particular story!

**rosesZZrubiesZZblacknailpolish:** Sorry to keep you waiting! You asked so nicely that it kicked my butt into gear and I hopped right over to my laptop :)

**Mrs Charlie Weasley- thats me: **Love the name, Babe

**Dramione27:** Aww you make me so happy. you're my best reviewer ever 3 The twins are a bit interchangable for me, so I picked George because I prefer the name shrugs

**Artemis942: **I love the word "pissy" too

**

* * *

**

**The Stupidity of Hermione Granger**

Part Three

Steven Frankle was one of the cutest little First Years she had ever laid eyes on. He was a dorky thing, his eyes an endearing two sizes to large for his face. Hermione watched as he giggled with his other 11-year-old friends in their pack next to the giant hourglasses. Apparently they were looking at something hilarious. Hermione let her eyes wander briefly to the hourglasses, watching the colored pebbles fall in and rise out from her perch on one of the side stairways. She grimaced as a large amount of red stones suddenly rose and departed from the Gryffindor glass. Lovely.

_I wonder who's responsible for that? _

It could be any headstrong student… or it could be a certain troublemaker whom she had been kissing only an hour ago. Hermione covered her face and let a rush of frustrated air leave her lungs. How had that happened? How? All she had wanted to do was thank him but somehow her good intentions had turned into a snog that she definitely could not have foreseen. _God…_ she had _snogged_ him! It was as though they'd completely overstepped the respected pattern and order of things and had jumped straight into…

Into easily the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted. It was incredibly irritating that she couldn't deny the fact that George Weasley had managed to knock her breath away with a simple look. The surprises he offered were, seemingly, never ending. One minute he was revealing to her that he'd seen saved her from her own foolery and had seen every inch of her naked self, then the next he was suddenly filling what had only moments before been a vacant doorframe. He'd been _watching_ her, the expression searing across his face unmistakable. Hermione had never been in the spotlight for serious attention, the kind of looks that made a girl blush hardly ever went her way. She was a smart girl, her nose hadn't always been glued to the spine of a book, and Hermione observed the world around her and noticed. She watched as her classmates grew into puberty and as they explored the new world around them. Guys stared, girls giggled. She had seen the heated expression that Georges face wore many times before, except, Hermione herself had never been the target. It was startling and the thought of it now still brought a warm red to her nose.

The way he had looked, how his eyebrows had been drawn together, intensely set over the bright brown of his eyes. His tall frame commanded the doorway with such presence that it left her reeling harder than a sucker punch to the face. Everything about George Weasley, a specimen she had previously viewed with annoyance, came rushing at her in that second. Look at his shoulders, his waist; Hermione drew in a deep breath as she thought back on the way his trousers hung dangerously low on his hips, the top of his boxers peeking out at her over his brown leather belt. A golden snitch and broom pattern, how… completely and utterly George.

"Shit!"

Hermione's head snapped up with enough force to break her spinal cord. Had that language honestly just rolled off the tongue of her favorite First Year? Indeed it had. The soft tones of his young voice seemed to fight the very use of the word, sounding strained and alien as it bounced off the ancient stones that made Hogwart's interior. She felt her brows come together in disapproval.

Steven Frankle frantically shoved a bit of parchment into his bag, his friends knitting closer around him, a feeble human shield compared to the angry snap of dark robes that approached. Snape's shoes, Hermione cocked her head to the side in distracted bemusement, he wore loafers… how odd, would have left a deep marks in the floor had his body's strength matched the look of fury that etched the lines of his face. Faster than any onlooker could see, Snape lashed out his wand, and the suspected slip of parchment flew out from between Frankle's despairing fingers.

Snape held the parchment between forefinger and thumb, his lip curling into a snarl of disgust as he surveyed the contents. His hand crutched into a fist, flames consuming the unfortunate page in a blast that startled everyone.

The young group cowered.

A grotesque amount of pebbles shot out of the Hufflepuff Hourglass, going up with enough force to break the thick glass.

Then, like a tornado suddenly weakening and whisping up into the storm clouds, Snape turned on his loafer-clad heels and left. Everyone stared about openmouthed. A Third Year Ravenclaw that stood a few feet away from Hermione's perch shifted uneasily before balling up a slip of her own parchment. The girl let the paper fall to the ground behind her. People scattered, desperate to get on their way in case the Potions Master decided to return. Hermione sat on her step, watching as students walked past and the atmosphere slowly returned to its normal pace. She shuffled her feet, glancing at the ball of crinkled parchment. Driven by curiosity, she _accio_ed it over and smoothed out the wrinkles. A small, unexpected laugh broke from her chest. It was a bewitched illustration of Snape prancing about in bikini briefs, water wings on his arms. Every now and then he would stop his dance to pick a wedgie from his cartoon butt.

* * *

A heavy dinner knife stuck into the dinner table, the endless drone of voices filled the Great Hall.

_Fuck._

Harry and Ron argued over Chaser and Keeper tactics as Ron spilt pumpkin juice, his arm knocking over his goblet in an animated gesture.

_Fuck._

George pried his steak knife from the table and stabbed at the chunk of meat on his plate. He tore off a bit of beef with his teeth. It was well cooked, the seasoning excelling the tender and juicy taste. Never the less, George gnawed on the steak begrudgingly, the flavor ruined by his current state of mind.

_Fuck._

He normally considered himself exceptionally clever, but the day's events left his smart meter in wanting. Kissing Hermione had been a creative way of stopping the tirade of fury she had been about to unleash, but it had also been an incredibly moronic way of complicating things further. George paused with his fork in his mouth; his encounter with the Bookworm took him from the present surrounding him. Her lips had been more amazing than he had ever imagined. Then again, George snorted as he dug the tip of his fork into the wood, leaving a second mark, all imaginative thoughts regarding Hermione's lips hadn't even occurred to him until the past 24 hours. A harmless snog was only natural; plenty of girls would be down with the situation. Have a little fun, no big deal. However, Hermione didn't go by George's standard of normalcy, therefore a problem.

Ron watched as Hermione entered the Hall, scooting over to make room for her.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

"Well, my gentlemen, it's time that I took my leave," George announced, letting his cutlery fall to the table with a graceless clatter.

He was running away. George cursed under his breath, feeling a pair of blue eyes dig like fangs into his back. In his entire life, George could not recall a more confusing encounter. Oh, the shame he was bringing down on the Weasley twin name. Since when did he flee away like a nancy?

He did since now apparently.

His feet led him up to the Common room, his hands shoved in his pockets like a fuming five-year-old. He snapped at the Fat Lady, causing him more grief as it then took him twenty minutes to placate the insulted portrait. George let his shoulders sag in exhaustion as the Fat Lady finally swung aside, revealing the hole that led to warm comfort and gloriously beautiful Fire Whiskey. Amen. After today's encounter he desperately needed a reprieve from the endless bombardment of thoughts, thoughts that George really had no desire to trudge through. Hermione Granger and her damn body was nothing more than an unpleasant barbed wire trap.

In the safety of his vacant dormitory his school books lay neglected on the floor as the orange liquid caught the dimming rays of the day's sun, flinging dancing stripes of orange against the wall. It was as if the liquid wanted to escape far from the confining glass of the bottle. Feeling better, George felt a wolfish grin return to its normal place among his facial features.

He kissed the bottle.

"It's just you and me, Baby."

* * *

Lavender Brown was going at it again. Every other night she'd go into hysterics and, as always, Seamus was the cause. Hermione tried to focus on the tip of the quill she was trimming, ignoring the budding frustration building in her chest.

"I don't know why he always has to be such an idiot. He's going to Scotland for his summer term, why the hell wouldn't he invite me? His parents allowed him to bring along one friend. _One_. Guess what his excuse was," she whined to Hannah.

She was flung out on her bed, her posture as dramatic as her statement.

"What?" Hannah asked, feigning interest as she picked at the lace lining of her pillow.

Everyone tucked in, bracing themselves for the next wave of complaints. Hermione watched her quill tip disappear into her inkwell. Astronomy, she needed to focus on astronomy.

"He said that Dean was his _friend_ and that he couldn't take me because I was his _girlfriend_ so I don't count."

She flipped through her Astronomy book, finding the correct chapter. Time to take notes. Hermione attempted to slip away into her routine of process. She started with labeling her parchment, then marked the date, under which she began to write.

"He always does this to me. I deserve soooooooo much better…"

Her handwriting became sloppy. She gritted her teeth, forcing her script into tighter lines.

"Yesterday he wanted to pull me up into the owlery for a snog between classes. The _owlery_. He is so clueless, why would I want to kiss him surrounded by owl shit?"

Hermione let her quill drop to her parchment, cupping her chin in her palm. She looked hopelessly at her book. So it seemed she'd be scribbling madly at breakfast tomorrow. She scowled. Last minute work was something she rarely had to do because it always left her in a foul mood. Doing work early ensured happiness. Simple. Hermione chewed on an ink spotted thumb. Her mind was too buzzed to work anyways.

The bugger left. He left dinner without so much as looking at her. George had always been a mystery to her and now it seemed that he wanted to drag her in deeper than she preferred. She was having trouble deciding on what surprised her the most, George kissing her, or the fact that she kissed him. It had just been so tempting. After the initial shock of having his arms around her and his lips teasing hers, Hermione had found it impossible not to give back. It came surprisingly natural, kissing George Weasly. Hermione smiled, ignoring the guilt that nipped at her mind, George had been a better kisser than Ron. It was almost comical, comparing the two on their lip lock skills. Besides, George was just so much more…

A shrill shriek from Lavender's bed jarred Hermione. Her hand shot out in surprise, sending her ink well into a summersault. Brown ink splashed across her desk, covering her notes, book, and spilt down onto her lap and over her arms. Flecks of ink hit her face. Hermione sat in shock, mind on a standstill. For a few seconds, she was only able to focus on the droplet of ink that clung to an eyelash of her left eye. She turned into the silence that had filled the room to find every face in the girl's dormitory looking at her. Lavender stood frozen on her bed, shoe raised above her head. Hannah stared, dumbstruck, her shoe missing from her right foot.

"Hermione, I'm sorry," Lavender began. She dropped the shoe. "Hannah chucked her shoe at me."

Hermione looked down at her hands. The aftermath of the shock left a sour bubble in her stomach. She drew in a quick breath of air, eyes misting as frustration became the dominant emotion. She up and left, furiously wiping at tears, not caring about the brown streaks she left on her face.

* * *

The room had a warm, fuzzy look to it, just the way he liked it. It was the point where everything else in his mind just eased away. There was nothing more to worry about. George set the bottle aside, his clumsy hands barely able to catch the bottle when it slipped. Some of the whiskey sloshed out, wetting his fingers. He shrugged, turning his unfocused attention back to the other occupants of the room. Ron was drunk, his face the color of his hair as he laughed into Neville's shoulder. Poor Longbottom, he looked as though he were about to faint. Why Ron and Fred had decided to bring him up was a lost to him. The kid couldn't hold three shots.

George frowned, his mind grasping the fact that the room was missing another body.

"Oy Fred!"

"How can I be of assistance, dear brother?" Fred called from his bed. His twin was attempting to practice his bludgeoning skills with his Advanced Charms text. Unfortunately his timing was off, his bat hitting empty air with each tipsy swing.

"Where the bloody hell is Harry?"

"I dunno," Fred responded. His bat missed again, clunking against one the bedposts.

George shrugged and picked up his whiskey, taking another deep swig. The red curtains of his four poster had never seemed so brilliantly red. He raised the bottle to his lips again.

Ron vomited, sending Neville into a panic.

"Damnit Ron!" George leapt to his feet, an empty bottle rolled away, the contents of which now soaked George's shirt and trousers.

Later, as he stumbled along a blindingly dark hallway, George cursed himself for forgetting his wand. His wand could have cleaned the whiskey from his body, but being around Ron as he attempted a cleaning spell of his own, while drunk, was not an event he preferred to witness. George shook his head as he crept through the darkness, inching his way to the baths. No, cleaning wasn't what he wanted his wand for. What he wanted now was to sober up so that he could find the bloody bathrooms. The prospect of being caught out in the halls reeking of fire whiskey wasn't something he feared necessarily, but rather viewed as an annoyance.

He rounded the corner and sighed in relief as his fingertips brushed against the wood of the door that he knew led to the baths. The air inside was moist, a warm mist filling the tiled room, obstructing his already blurred vision. The baths were always like this, although it was rather late. He shrugged it off; some other chap must've had the same thing in mind as himself, a late night soak. George slipped off his shoes and grimaced. The warm water on the tile seeped into the soles of his socks.

"Ugh, wet clothes and now wet socks. Sorry, mate," George grumbled shrugging out of his clothing and stepping into the hot water of the large bath. The thing was the size of a small swimming pool, plenty of room for another person. Besides, George didn't plan on wasting the energy on drawing a bath for himself.

A small gasp reached his ears through the steam. George frowned, the high-pitched squeak causing his head to cock to the side. What was a first year doing in here? Those little midgets were never out this late.

"Listen, lil' tike, everyone shares bath water at some point," he chuckled, peering through the heavy steam that lifted from the water like white tendrils, snaking toward the ceiling. Squinting, he could make out the slender form of what he assumed to be the first year, pressed against the far edge of the tub. At that moment the steam seemed the break, like a curtain pulling away to reveal a stage or a celestial Being exposing its cruel joke, either way, George felt his jaw drop in stupefied horror. Standing on the other end of the tub was a livid, wet, and incredibly naked, Hermione Granger.

"George Weasley! What. Are. You. Doing. In. My. Bath!" she shrieked.

He slipped back in a panic, splashing into the water in a flurry of arms. He came up sputtering.

"Blimey, Hermione! What are you doing in the boy's bath?" George asked, choking on sudsy water.

"This is the girls bath, you dolt!" her seethed, her arms wrapped so tightly around her chest that it looked as though she were attempting to crush herself like a pop can.

"Bullshit, this is th-," George froze.

_The girl's bath is down the hall to the left, the boys are opposite. I went to the… _

"Shit."

"Yeah, big shit," Hermione glowered, sinking deeper into the water.

George placed his hands on his hips. Standing waist deep in the soap murky water, he was sure that his privies where safe from being spotted. Not that he was ashamed of his meat and veggies. He was quite proud, actually.

"So… what brings you to the baths this late?" he asked, bouncing back from the shock.

There was an awkward silence as Hermione pierced him with an incredulous stare. Finally, in a small voice, she replied, "Spilt ink. Everywhere. I had to wash off."

"Ink, huh? Brown ink or black?"

"What does it matter? Ink is ink! What I'm concerned about is that _you_ are _still_ in _my_ bath!" Hermione cried out in frustration.

"It would seem that it's _our_ bath now," he said, leaning against the side of the tub. He allowed a cheeky smile to spread across his face as Hermione sputtered in fury. Honestly, she sounded like something from 'The Exorcist' or an alien. He took the time to shake the water from his hair as she finished her animalistic noise display.

"You make no sense," she said and with a final noise of disgust, dropped her arms and waded through the water past him.

George couldn't help it; he stared at her sudden act of bare breasted bravado. As the sound of her feet on the bathroom floor met his ears, he snapped out of it. Unable to explain why, George felt the sudden urge to stop her. It was a bizarre tug at his chest that had him scrambling from the water after her.

"Hermione, I-," he began, reaching for her arm.

"What? Are you going to actually clarify something because I'd really like to make sense of _this_? Whatever the hell this is between us. You save me and then gloat about it. The next thing I know, you come out of nowhere, start kissing me and leave without so much as saying a word. You ignore me at dinner and now you came crusading into my bath! You are so inconsistent is infuriating!" Hermione hit him with her towel, her body rigid with anger.

"Last time I checked you kissed me right back and, yes, I saved your ass from being caught. Try to be a little more grateful, if you don't mind," George said, feeling his own frustration and anger leaping to the front of his mind.

From the outside this scene must have been ridiculous. Two people so caught up in an argument that they seemed to have completely forgotten their nudity. George, however, didn't care how odd this seemed. The rational part of his brain refused to compute.

"I thanked you for that!" Hermione retorted, hitting him a second time with the towel.

"Stop!"

"Stop what? This?" Hermione struck again.

"Exactly! Since when does the fair maiden in distress pummel her knight in shinning armor?" George demanded, raising an arm to ward off another attack.

"They do when the knight turns out to be a complete git!" Hermione shouted, hitting him with repeated blows.

George reached out instinctively and grabbed the towel, yanking it from her hands. Like a domino effect, she followed, balance disrupted by his actions. George reached out to catch her, losing his own footing on the slippery floor. They fell in a tangled heap of wet and soap slicked limbs. George gritted his teeth in pain as his elbow contacted the floor with a hard whack. As the jolt of pain subsided, George became aware of Hermione's breathing, quick and shaky. George noticed the way her body was pressed against his, her legs straddling his right thigh. His eyes followed the contours of her body, how her arms were braced on either side of his head, holding her up so that her breasts where at the perfect eye level. He looked up to her face. The eye contact sent heat pooling to his lions. She was flushed, eyes wide in a mixture of surprise and, yes he could definitely see it, passion.

They were silent, George on his back staring up at Hermione. The silence tensed and stretched out. Just as it seemed as though the air between them would rip, he raised a tentative hand. He felt her skin tremble under his touch as his fingers traced the curve of her hip. As though her small intake of breath was his signal, George pulled himself up and gathered Hermione into his bare lap. The shock of finding Hermione in the bath had cleared his head, banishing the effects of alcohol so that now his mind clouded over with another intoxicant. Passion. With a low groan rumbling in his chest, George wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face into her neck. His heart jumped as she pulled her arms around his neck, encouraging him on, digging her fingers into his damp hair.

* * *

The greenhouse had made her breathless. Pressure from his arms around her body had driven her to new heights as his fingers had danced about her body, touching her in ways that revved up a part of her she didn't know how to control. Now, as George brushed his lips over the heated flesh of her throat, Hermione was finding it hard to even draw in air. It was so dynamically different, the absence of clothing. The heat from his body radiated through her. His fingers raised gooseflesh on the sensitive skin of her lower back, questing downwards. When his hands came around and squeezed the soft flesh of her bottom, she came fully aware of the firm desire that pressed against her inner thigh.

Small tremors worked their way through her body as the sensation of it all left her in a dizzying rush. With sudden fervor, Hermione pulled his head up and met his mouth with hers. George didn't miss a beat, pulling her hips against his, matching the heat of the kiss. All inhibitions that lurked in the back of her mind flew out the window as George ground their hips together in a slow, heavy movement that ignited the inferno deep in her abdomen. This was so unlike her, but Hermione found herself not caring. All that she could focus on was his mouth and the way his body moved against hers. She nipped at his lower lip, his warm tongue brushing against hers. George's tempo grew more frantic beneath her, his body as shaky as his breathing. His hands roamed over her body at a fast pace, as though he feared her body would evaporate at any second.

Strangled moans and sighs reverberated off the walls, echoing around them and it took a few moments before she realized that the noises were spouting from her very throat. He was doing so much, caressing her body with both hands and lips. It was maddening. She suddenly cried out when his venturing mouth closed over her left nipple, her head flung back so violently that she was surprised she didn't hit the floor. If everything before had been too much, this was unhinging her. A sob racked her chest, coming out as a painful gasp. Her body demanded so much and every time his manhood pressed against the apex of her center, she nearly swooned. He came so close to going up to the next level and a bubble of panic and excitement would build until he turned his attention elsewhere on her anatomy.

Sweat trickled down the side of her face. This was going somewhere; it had to, because if it didn't Hermione was sure she'd die right then and there. She cupped his face in her hands slowly kissing him before looking into his eyes. All she could see was his brown eyes staring back into hers. She was really going to do this. An odd calm suddenly stilled her movements. The electricity between them built as she shifted her hips. The calm transitioned into excitement as the tip of his length brushed her entrance. The intense look in his eyes made a nervous flutter in her chest. His hands squeezed her hips, like a reassurance. She was going to do this. Her mouth open in a breathless "o", she sunk down, eyes rolling back at the intense pressure that filled her.

"Hermione," George groaned. Her name came out as a guttural sound from his lips, almost unintelligible.

Things slowed down as her body adjusted to the change, her rib cage felt like it was about to crack with her heavy breathing. She let out a soft moan, placed her forehead against his, wrapping her arm around his neck. He rocked her hips, sending bolts of lighting down her legs and back up again, settling in her stomach, swirling as she felt her body begin to tighten. Hermione was beginning to love the sounds that escaped from George's mouth. It was so open, the way he panted into her ear, making the whole experience even more real.

Hermione squeaked as George suddenly lifted her up and braced her back. The cool of the tiled floor sent shivers up her spine as he laid her down, but as soon as they came, George banished them with the warmth of his body. He rocked against her, cradling her head in the crook of his arm. She couldn't stop kissing him; it was all she could think to do to compliment the pace he set. George used his other arm to lift up her leg, pulling it around his waist and holding it there. She clutched at his chest, shoulders, anything she could hold onto as pleasure rolled through her body. She randomly found herself wondering, was this what an asthma attack was like, unable to catch up with her heaving chest? She was ripped away from the train of thought by another incessant moan.

George's hips moved faster, working up into a frantic pace, skin slid against skin, sweat coating their bodies. Hermione felt her inside tighten and coil, a rush, pressure that sent her into a fit of sounds that George devoured with his ready mouth. She was reaching the peak of a hill. She wanted to get over that hill, to reach the top with blinding euphoria. She moved her hips, attempting to meet his thrusts with equal energy. She pushed him up the hill with her until her body reeled in orgasm, clenching around him, pushing him over the edge with her. He came with a rush of whispered nothings in her ear, giving one final thrust before collapsing, kissing her with exhausted lips.

Hermione reveled in the aftermath of their love; enjoying the smooth texture of his lips as they kissed, not ready to unravel their bodies just yet. She smiled, resting her head in his arms and examining the freckles on his face.

* * *

The Great Hall seemed to be his thinking spot, the place where all his revelations came to him. It was also, as of late, his place of worry. Since Hermione's naked arse walked into his life, he hadn't been able to eat. Instead he sat there, assaulting the table surface with his eating utensils, anxiously awaiting her arrival. The past night's events had been as unexpected as every other encounter he'd shared with her in the past 48 hours. Last night… George had to close his eyes. She was full of surprises, being the one to instigate sex had left him dumbfounded. The memory of her body against his still had his skin tingling.

George looked over at Ron and felt unease squirm in his stomach. This was why he shouldn't have messed with Hermione… but he couldn't help it. He was intrigued and wanted to explore, especially now that he knew how magnificent a shag she was.

But still his food turned to ashes on his plate. How would she react today? Last night in the time after their passion, she'd been cool and relaxed. She didn't profess her undying love but she didn't look like she regretted her actions either. Which was what made this so worrisome. He didn't know how she was going to react today now that they weren't alone. How would Ron react? Last time he checked his kid brother had been head over heals, shame for him he was so dense. George grinned; didn't such a smart girl deserve the cleverest of the Weasleys?

He looked up to see Harry and Ginny walk in for breakfast. Something in the back of his mind clicked, so _that's_ where that short, green-eyed bugger had been. Brotherly concern had him rising from his seat. He stopped, however, at the sight of Hermione Granger walking in behind them. She was looking at him. To calm the jitters, George grinned, raising an eyebrow in his characteristic manner. She giggled and to his massive relief, sat down next to him.

"How was your night?" he asked, the joke breaking the ice as she reached for eggs.

"As a matter of fact," she replied, shooting him a coy look from the corner of her eye. "I had a spectacular night. Yourself?"

"Marvelous, it was the kind of night I'd like to have again," George replied, nonchalantly sipping on his orange juice.

"Oh, I think you will," she said, smiling.

George watched, with rogue-ish pride, as an endearing blush spread over her cheeks. His hand felt good there, discretely place on her thigh, his thumb working circles on the soft flesh as he watched Hermione attempt to act normal. He'd found a new game, one he planned to play often. Ron never noticed. He was busy glowering suspiciously at the Boy-Who-Lived reading the Daily Prophet with Ginny. What a shame, his loss. Besides, Hermione didn't seem to care. It was apparent she wanted he, George Weasley, to continue this new trend between them. He'd have no problem managing that.

Breakfast was good as they laughed, entertained by Snape's attempt to incinerate any copies of the bikini wearing cartoon version of himself that circulated the Great Hall.

* * *

MMkay,

How was it? Review and let me know. Which reminds me. I challenge thee, Dear Readers, to suggest what I should write about next. Any ideas? I'd like to write what you all want to read.

-peanut 3


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey everybody. Here's another George and Hermione scenario. I wanted to do something with Fred's death. I've yet to come up with a title for this so I'm open for suggestions. I hope you enjoy, this ones going to be a lot more serious in camparison to the past chapters.**

* * *

**1**

365 fucking days.

An entire year since the halls of Hogwarts echoed with the sounds of battle. The cries and screams still seemed to linger around each corner, ringing in the ears of the students who were there that night. Voldemort was gone but the deep pain of loved ones lost cast a steady gloom over the castle.

Get up, move on, and be happy with the people you have left.

It was an impossible request for Headmaster McGonagall to make. How could he, when the world had lost its flavor? They tried to understand, but there was no way they could grasp the severity of his despair. No one knew what it was like to lose half of his or her existence. It was like a meat cleaver, coming down with a sickening thud.

George watched the water collect around the drain. Everything these days was heavy, even the air threatened to push him down. He laid the side of his head against the shower wall, trying to relax as the water poured down. The cold shock of the tile only smarted. The pain had sucked him dry; taking everything that was Fred and himself in the process. He had thought that being back here would help.

It was a dramatic mistake on his part.

Hogwarts was nothing but a cruel reminder.

* * *

The sunlight drifted lazily in through the window, illuminating the dust particles that slowly glided through the air. The room would have been asleep, sluggish in a heavy silence, if it hadn't been for the portraits peering down from their frames, whispering in low tones that gently brushed by his ears. A decrepitly old magus coughed from his frame hanging over the door. The harsh break made the sickness in his stomach rise up into a pungent stab of anger. Everything irritated him these days.

The young man next to him fidgeted, increasing the underlying anxiety the room held.

How many times had he been in here, in the Headmasters chambers? The most powerful memory he could conjure was the night Harry saw Voldemort's snake attack his father. It was a shame; really, that he couldn't remember any good times, or, more importantly, that he didn't want to. Those hurt too much. The slow poison of grief saturated his bones. He cringed at any happy memory he might have pulled up.

The door snapped open as Headmaster McGonagall entered the room with her usual, brisk walk. Forever efficient, McGonagall had set the room to her style. With the exception of the portraits of Headmasters past and gone, the room was bare of all the fascinating trinkets the late Professor Dumbledore had once been so fond of. Her desk, two lone armchairs by the fireplace, a small tea stand, and the uncomfortable wooden chairs in which they now sat occupied the room. The floors were slick with polish and discipline.

"One sugar or two?" she asked, conjuring a pot.

Whether George wanted tea or not, he knew he had no say. He sighed, signaling that one would suffice. A cup and saucer sailed his way and George attempted to catch the frail china. His hands seemed by far too large and callused to handle the delicate cup.

"Lemon?"

George merely shook his head at the offer. The inner workings of his jaw, once well oiled, now lay dormant with rust. He rarely spoke anymore, too much of an effort. They settled into their tea for a brief silence, McGonagall sipping in precise, seemingly measured movements. Pursing her lips, she set down her steaming cup and gave them both a calculating look.

"Wood, you received the owl this morning?" she asked, folding her hands on top of each other on the desk.

"Yes, Professor. It wasn't much of a hassle gettin' here at the last moment," Oliver replied, flashing her a reassuring smile.

"Still, I apologize for the late notice. Things as of late have been a bit…" McGonagall let the sentence die off. Both Oliver and Wood understood. The lines in her face where more pronounced.

There was a pause as McGonagall pressed her fingertips to her temples. The stress of her job stretched across the distance between them and George felt the weight of her position settle on his shoulders. For a brief second he felt humbled, knocked off his high horse of grief. Others had lost. Others had pain, and even though he was fully aware of the grief he and his counterpart had given McGonagall throughout their years at Hogwarts, the lost of Fred was a sharp blow to even to this seasoned teacher.

The moment of weariness passed and she was once again in top form.

"As you both know, morale has been low. Even though Voldemort's dark shadow has passed, there's still so must pain left to linger. Quiddich this year was cancelled due to the low student population. Most parents where afraid to send their children here after what happened, there were numerous concerns that the emotional impact had scarred the school. I've been in touch with a number of parents and the board of directors and we've observed that this up coming year should be promising. In order to pull more students in, we are starting up the Quiddich program again. I have been in touch with Harry as well as leading veteran Quiddich players from all of the houses. The hope is that guidance from you all will help kick start the program."

"How long will we be obligated to stay?" Oliver asked.

"We know that you all have other things going on in your lives. It will be a yearlong commitment but by all means you can commute," McGonagall said, spreading her hands out, palms up in an offering gesture.

Oliver made a compliant noise, nodding as he considered. George stared at his folded hands in his lap. The joke shop was temporarily closed. They had made enough of a profit that he could spend a couple of years doing whatever he pleased. It hurt too much to attempt to create anything with out his brother by his side. He was his inspiration and now that the sound of Fred's laugher no longer echoed off the shop's walls, there was no point. His muse was dead.

"I'll stay," he said, raising his head to look the headmaster square in the eye.

* * *

The castle peered through the gloom like a flat gray paper cutout, all definition of space and texture lost in the steady down pour of rain. Light from the windows fought against the ever-pressing grey, threatening to extinguish at any wavering moment. George sat atop the stadium, his broom resting against his shoulder. He took a perverse sense of pleasure from the drenching rain, seeping a cold chill deep into his muscles. If he got sick it didn't matter, he simply didn't care. George was to busy replaying all of their moments together on the grand playing field before him. All the matches they ever played together ran though his head, a silent film rolling over his eyes.

He shook his head. There'd always been a competition with Fred, one always pushing the other to go further, to be faster. His grip tightened on his broom handle. A sour sensation bit into his stomach, suddenly he was done remembering for the day. However, it wasn't as simple as that. Life would be easier to live every day if he could just switch off the tide of memories, a respite from the constant flow of pain. It was a sore ach that settled in between his ribs, tugging him back into his pit every time he began to feel happiness. Was it a crime, to feel any amount of happiness? How could he when Fred lay six feet beneath the ground?

Standing, he pulled the wet hair from his face and faced the grounds. A gust of wind hit him, as if announcing the arrival of a carriage. The small carriage worked its way slowly up the road, trudging against the fury of the weather. Those carriages had once been horseless. Now dark creatures, their skeletal wings occasionally unfolding and batting at the air in powerful strokes, drew them. Death, he did not know their name neither did he care to find out, but they stank of death. George watched as they progressed, drawing closer to the warmth and shelter of the castle.

He watched as a few house elves arrived to greet the carriage. A small, distant form stepped down to the muddied path. The elves attempted to retrieve the luggage only to be turned away. It was a she, her small body buffeted by the wind. She lugged her bag up the steps. Just before she slipped into the warm pool of light the open door created, she paused. George realized with a jolt that she was staring at him, that somehow over the distance between them they had made eye contact. Moments tightened between the two souls, a taught thread connecting them. It was an uncomfortable feeling, a sensation he hadn't felt for a long time.

There had once been a time when he had such a thread. It weaved though his entire being and stretched out to his other half, his twin. So secure they were together, a basket elegantly bound, strong enough to hold all the mischief they spun. It held all of their thoughts, theirs jokes, the whispered promises they had made for the future, their future. Now it was only his to face alone. Their thread has been cut and now it hung limply by his side.

Someone had picked it up, winding the weathered thing between her fingers as she stared at him through the rain. He felt affronted, almost threatened at the now foreign feeling that was pulling at him. George stepped back from the stadium wall, withdrawing from sight. He pulled it from her fingers and wound it back up inside his chest. It had caught him off guard. What was Hermione Granger doing back at Hogwarts?

* * *

Seven days, a week, until open try outs for Quiddich began. Oliver planned to come in the next day to meet and discuss captains. George had a day of nothing. The decision to stay at Hogwarts for the year began to feel moronic in the harsh morning light that streamed in through his window. Was there a point in getting up out of bed? He didn't see one, but he pulled the covers aside and slipped his feet out onto the stone floor despite his misgivings.

Breakfast was uneventful. The small gathering of professors and personnel dined in relative quite. The Grand Hall was resting, bracing itself for the rush of students that would soon take its tables by storm. The absence of the clang of plates and cutlery and young voices reverberating off the walls in a cheerful din was eerie.

The rest of the morning passed by slowly, George paced the halls, restless and bored. He went outside, walking across the neat and orderly lawns. The world outside seemed bleached in the bright sun. The lake lay stagnant. There was no reason to, which was why he did it, but he started off in the direction of the Forbidden Forest. The trees loomed overhead as he drew closer, offering shade. Hagrid's hut was settled into the ground next to the forest. It nestled in like a plump bird.

He paused to enjoy the quiet.

"It's pretty noble of you, starting up Quiddich again."

It was a shock and it showed as George stumbled around.

"Hermione?" It was a greeting and a question as he regained his composure.

She sat perched on the steps leading to Hagrid's front door. Her hair had been cut short, curling about the base of her neck. Thye regarded each other and when it became apparent that he wasn't going to say anything, Hermione fidgeted nervously.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," she began, standing.

"Oh. You didn't. Just wasn't expecting you to be there." George said, working his hands into his pockets.

"I came to stop by and see if Hagrid was around. Apparently he's off doing something for McGonagall," Hermione gave him a once over and stepped closer. "You've lost weight."

"So, what brings you back to Hogwarts?" George asked, turning and pretending to be interested in the Giant Squids tentacles sunning on the shore of the lake.

"The library. They need help replacing what was lost and cataloging everything," Hermione answered, George could feel her gaze.

He could feel her as if she were mere inches away. George cleared his throat and moved a few more steps away. It was unnerving. He hadn't seen Hermione since the funeral. Detached from the rest of the world, George hadn't really seen much of anyone. All the condolences fell deaf on his ears. Had Hermione spoken to him that day? He couldn't recall. Hermione moved and closed the gap between them.

"George," Hermione said, her voice was as soft as the hand she laid on his arm. He shivered.

"Don't," he said. "I know you think you have to say something, but you don't. Really, I don't need it."

Hermione looked hurt, drawing her hand back as if wounded. There was a pause, both of them standing there, looking at the ground.

"Then what can I say? What words could I possible give you that would sooth this pain that's devouring you? I'm not offering you a card or flowers," Hermione voice wavered as she spoke. "I know I was never that terribly close to you. I know I'm not obligated to help you or that I can completely understand what you're going through. I just want to help."

It was a moment where so many thoughts fought for a place in his head George couldn't piece together anything to say. Instead he stood silently, awkward, in the aftermath of her plea. She was begging to be of use. George was tired of wit, of working his way around something. He wanted to avoid the question because, simply, he had no idea. He didn't know what could possibly be done to heal his wound. For lack of a better method, he changed the subject.

"How's Ron," he asked, looking away again.

"Shouldn't you know? He's your brother."

Her words hurt. George wasn't sure if she meant for them to be. Another silence. Hermione sighed.

"I suppose he's fine. I haven't heard from him in months. We just… stopped talking," Hermione whispered.

She began to walk past him. Away. George panicked. Hermione was hurt and he hadn't meant for it. Guilt leapt him into action, grasping Hermione's arm and gently pulling her back.

"I don't know," he breathed, making complete eye contact with her for the first time. "I don't know but I wish I could fix it. Every day I feel hollow and I'm constantly searching for some kind of closure. I'm scrambling blindly to the point where I don't know how to deal with comfort when it's offered."

Hermione looked at him, hard. Then, before he could react, she leaned in, stealing a kiss from his lips.

* * *

Being back at Hogwarts wasn't helping and neither was she. George ground his head against the shower tile. There were too many thoughts… Hermione Granger and her lips. Why had she done that? He had no way of knowing. She'd been here for only a day, he hadn't seen her for nearly a year, and she had kissed him. He was too tired to try and figure it out.

Fatigued, George let the water run down over his head and allowed himself to wander. He thought of how her breath had run warm across his face, the small pause before she had pressed her lips against his own, and the smell of another human being so close, so intimate against his flesh.

George frowned, bothered by his sudden arousal. When was the last time this had happened? Unable to ignore the ache between his legs, he felt guilty and furious, conflicted at the pleasure as he pumped his hand, working himself. Hermione had come to him, offering her help. Little did she know how complicated she was making things. With his hand braced against the shower wall, he gave into the slick sensation of water and skin. He groaned, his hand at a frenzied pace. He began cursing, throwing out every insult he'd ever learned. It wasn't at anyone in particular, just fury at fate for dropping this bomb over his head and then having him survive to deal with the carnage.

It was a release of both pleasure and anger as he came, emptying himself onto the floor. The water washed away the evidence down the drain. George turned off the water and wrapped his towel around his waist. Cradling his head in his palms, he sat down on the bench holding his clothes and toiletries.

"Fuck," his voice echoing off the walls and returning to him. His burden.

* * *

**I'm not sure how many chapters this will spread into. Let me know what you think!**

**3 peanut**


	7. Chapter 7

OOOkay, guy. I'd like to start off my saying thank you for all of the reviews. I know that it takes me an enternity and a half to update these stories. Thank you for being so patient with this poor soul. I have decided that this one is going to be a bit longer than the others, perhaps a few more chapters after this one. So read up! I hope you enjoy :)

* * *

A Year: Act 2

The baked earth beneath their feet was a discomfort. The heat seeped up from the beaten ground, through the thick material of their feet, and seared their soles. George shifted his weight, flicking his right foot to the side quickly. Temporary relief, but over all proved to be a fruitless attempt. It was hot. The midday sun pounded down onto their thin frames. He could feel the skin on his ears begin to tighten. He was burning and uncomfortable, yes, but George was patient with the knowledge that there was merit for standing out in this wasted field.

George kicked at the barren earth, drained and utterly useless. He suspected that at one point it had produced a heavy crop. Corn laden with golden produce and the potatoes thick and creamy as they took from the land; it must have made an excellent chowder. A creamy, full bodied chowder steaming from a bowl in a homey setting with some little chum getting ready to dig in… George was hungry. He sighed. It was empty now, along with the skeleton of what was once a farmstead. He could almost sense the oppressive loss that must have befallen the family that lived in that house. The broken windows leered out at him. He turned and faced his brother. Fred made some marks in his moleskin.

"Lets get started then, yeh?" he said, shielding his eyes with his hand as he surveyed the land.

"The coast is clear."

They had climbed under the derelict fencing, regarding the no trespass sign with indifference. George fished the small vial out of his pocket and tossed it over to Fred. The lithe youth caught it with ease and flicked it high into the air. George had his wand at the ready.

"_Ut pulsus ventus._"

The tiny vial shot further up into the sky, becoming a distant speck, almost lost from sight. George distantly watched his brother pull out his wand and aim. He shot and the vial exploded with a small pop. Bits of glass fell, feigning gentleness as the shards came down. He turned his face away and shook the bits from his hair. The glass would have to go, but he knew they had time for that improvement. They would continue their work with an inspired fervor. He knew this with undiluted certainty. He could feel it working. Already the sun seemed to be pulling away from them, distanced by the shine of fog that began to swirl. It coated the air around them and thickened. His breath came out in chilly puffs and he smiled. Fred whistled.

"That worked a bit better than I was expecting, to tell you the truth." Fred said, admiring their handiwork.

"Agreed." George clapped his twin fondly on the shoulder.

"Stage two," Fred laughed, pointing to the small sprouts worming their way from the ground.

The bright green beginnings of life grew at an unnatural pace to rise three inches, blanketing the ground in a healthy layer of moss and other soft greens. They smiled at each other, silently congratulating the apparent success of their efforts. Small white flowers with delicate pedals began pushing themselves up. The aroma of wet earth and fresh life began to rise. It was a testament to the glory of nature.

"Work well done I'd say," he said as a soft rain began to patter down, the thirsty cotton of his shirt soaking up the heavy drops.

"Stage three," Fred announced, lifting his arms into the air.

Thunder began to rumble, distant and unthreatening. The rain picked up and George watched as the clouds over their heads turned from a steady grey into thick, rolling clouds that were heavy with moisture. Both young men started as lighting licked across the sky, unexpected. The thunder followed quickly, this time booming with such ferocity that the very air vibrated. A strong wind had arrived suddenly and began to whip at their clothing. George raised an eyebrow and shouted, "We may have over done it a bit."

Fred nodded in agreement and both men crouched as sheets of drilling rain pounded the earth. Their feet churned the ground into a thick muck as they slopped across the field. Fingers of cold water ran down his back and collected in his pockets. Saturated, George felt heavy. His foot popped out of the ground and squelched with each slow, laborious step. The spell had run its course by the time they reached the front porch of the house. The two wearily sat down on the aged boards and watched as the fog trailed away. Silence filled in the empty space the tearing wind had left. It was a hot, baking silence.

"For the most part that was useful."

George shrugged, "These shoes were new."

Fred looked down at his own misfortune and his mouth twisted.

"Make this work and we can buy new shoes."

* * *

It was remarkable how everything had seemed so simple then. Life hadn't been entirely kind to her but it had spared her the crushing grief she'd watched others bear. She had loving parents who did their best to understand. She admired them for that. They took the unorthodox curve ball thrown at them and sent their daughter to school. When she had sent them to Australia last year they'd been perfectly fine, disregarding the fact that they had no memory of said event.

"Hermione."

Hermione had to carve herself a spot in this world and she'd made sure to give everything its appropriate place on her shelf. There was good. There was evil. So long as she excelled at school, Hermione had truly believed she would survive when everything broke.

"Are you going to get to those today at all?"

Hermione looked up from her forgotten parchment. She sat amongst columns of books. Some were charred, others hopelessly torn, their pages spewing out from their bounds like gruesome wounds. Brenley's small face peered down at her, head cocked to one side. Brenley often reminded her of a parrot, or some other kind of bird with a direct sense of attitude. Tactless.

"Yes," she sighed. "It's only 10, we've got the whole day ahead of us."

Brenley regarded her for a second; her concentration masking whatever expression would have danced across her face. It was the blessing and curse of who Brenley was. She was a sharp object, ruthless and opinionated yet completely and irrevocably loyal. Hermione had been aware of the challenges of taking Brenley on board; she was as stubborn as Ron.

Hermione's thoughts ground to a halt. Intrusive thoughts, ripping their way into her mind, where was Ron? It was a very good question. Unfortunately it was one she couldn't answer.

Ron had disappeared. The knowledge that he had walked off again caused bile to rise to the back of her throat. She'd told him to never leave again, and he had promised not to. Seeing Ron walk into their tent, after having disappeared when so much was at stake, the same sensation echoed through her body, as if Ron where about to walk through the library door. He didn't.

She was jarred by the profound sensation of becoming aware that she was crying. Had she been so lost in thought that she hadn't noticed the sting of tears on her throat? Hermione wiped at the hot tears, growing cold on her cheeks.

"Returning has been incredibly difficult for many."

Hermione looked up. McGonagall had replaced the spot where Brenley had been. She leaned against one of the desks, picking up one of the charred texts. Bits of broken black crumbled at her touch, falling to the ground with soft sounds. She looked drained, despite her Professor's advancing age. There was weariness where once her eyes shone with vivacious determination.

"More will come back. We've got Quiddich now," Hermione said. She was finding that attempting to reassure someone who had appeared to be infallible in her past extremely uncomfortable.

McGonagall sighed, placing the book, or what remained of it, back.

"I need you to go to Düsseldorf, Germany. I happen to know a small book collector there. Deals with very rare oddities and ancient texts. I sent him an owl that you'd be arriving tomorrow to pick up some items," McGonagall said, handing Hermione a bit of neatly folded parchment.

Hermione scanned the list of titles.

"Are these… dark texts, Professor?"

"Morally ambiguous, dear," the elderly professor replied, giving Hermione a blunt look. When Hermione looked about to protest, she cut her off. "I am not going to have another learning environment like Dolores Umbridge simply because we are afraid, Hermione. Hiding what is out there is not going to help our students. We can impress upon them the values of good morals as much as we can, but we can only go so far. Suppressing them will only create something far worse."

"I know, Professor, I just…"

"It's okay to feel this way. It's only natural that you would feel fragile after all that has happened, but now is the time to start firming up."

McGonagall got up to leave.

"How are we paying him? Your book collector, I mean." Hermione asked, stopping McGonagall.

"He owes me a tremendous favor, however he's a bit… oily. I will send with you some galleons to loosen his grip," She replied before leaving the Library with a sweep of her robes.

* * *

Left over rain clung to the leaves before gravity's inevitable pull brought them down, hitting the soft ground with a heavy pat. Hermione was at Hagrid's cabin again. The door had been locked, child's play. She walked in and sat herself down at Hagrid's massive table. The emotion that had ripped her from work that morning had clung to her, following her about as she sorted and stacked. It slowed her pen, her handwriting reduced to idle lines. She couldn't concentrate. Not when Ron and George where playing a duet in her head.

Hermione ran a finger over the rim of one of his giant mugs, left on the table. Hagrid had left quickly. She couldn't imagine what McGonagall had sent him off to do, simply that it must have been of some great importance.

"It would have been nice for you to be here though, Hagrid," Hermione said softly into the empty room.

As if by instinct, Hermione started the fire in his fireplace. She could have done it magically, but Hermione pulled the water bucket outside and filled it at the pump. With a kettle filled and heating over the fire, Hermione began hunting for Hagrid's tea tin. She shifted through the tins and boxes on his shelf. Some things she didn't dare to open, others where surprisingly empty. She found a tin of simple tealeaves and his very normal sized teapot.

"I was wondering where you went to."

Hermione turned around in surprise. Expectation mingled with sudden disappointment as Brenley walked into the cabin.

"Well damn, don't look so overjoyed to see me." Brenley said, scanning the interior of Hagrid's cabin, weighing it. Once she had judged it oddly fitting, she sat.

Hermione pulled two of Hagrid's cleaner mugs from the shelves.

"You were crying again today," Brenley said, observing the blue china pattern on her mug.

"Does it bother you that much?" Hermione replied, adding a burst of heat to the fire with her wand.

"No, I just find it odd. I'm not used to people crying."

Brenley had sharp eyes, a pale multilayered green. It resulted in a gaze that left her with the sensation that she had seen a secret, but no matter how hard Hermione tried, she could never guess what it was that Brenley had seen. She watched as Brenley scratched at her hopelessly short hair, cut just has brutally as her character.

"You're an odd one," Hermione shook her head, marveling at the bizarre fondness she held for this sharp, pointy woman.

"Not odd, simply raised by men," she retorted, _accioing_ the kettle over when it began to scream.

"McGonagall is sending us to Germany tomorrow, to Düsseldorf," Hermione said.

"By what means?"

"Portkey," Hermione said, shrugging as she found a bottle of honey amongst Hagrid's things.

"Nothing good comes from Düsseldorf," Brenley muttered.

"What makes you say that?"

Brenley gave the table a hard look before scratching at her hair again, a force of habit. A terse silence pulled between them, Brenley staring the table down, Hermione waiting for a response.

"Nothing… nothing. I'm just being difficult I guess," she finally said.

"That's what makes you such a useful partner," Hermione smirked, pouring Brenley a steaming mug of tea.

Brenley quirked her head, giving Hermione another measuring look.

"This trip is going to be difficult one. Where picking up some dark texts-," Hermione began.

"And acquiring dark texts is never an easy trip," Brenley finished.

The mutual agreement of tomorrow's difficulties was acknowledged silently as they sipped and blew at their mugs. Hermione looked out of Hagrid's window, the castle sat up on the hill, clinging to the cliff faces beyond it. The old stone structures stood strong but personified as an old man, pausing for breath.

"What was with that look when I came in," Brenley asked.

"Hmm? What look?" Hermione pulled her eyes away from the outside.

"When I came in," she restated. "You were expecting someone else."

Hermione forced out a dismissive laugh.

"It was nothing," She said, cupping her hands around the heat of the mug and looking into its contents. "There are just a lot of people I wished were here with me. There are too many memories to allow me to be here peacefully by myself."

Brenley nodded at this, allowing silence to replace her usual retort.

* * *

He was in one of those moods. Unable to sit still, George went outside. Once outside, he felt fatigued and tired. Evening was closing in, a cool, damp breeze came in from the south, bringing with it slow, thick clouds. George was discovering that he enjoyed being out in the rain, on his broom. The wind picked him up, raising him to dizzying heights above the grounds. A sudden, acute sensation of fear pierced his chest. Adrenaline pumped through his body as he dared to go higher.

His eyes stung from the rain and he realized how wide his eyes had become. The idea of simply letting go of his broom and falling wilted his excitement with sudden brutality. George felt the broom sink. The thrill had vanished from the risk he was taking and, sullenly, he made his way towards solid ground. He landed in a massive oak, the bark slick as he got his bearings on a branch. A picture of warmth caught his attention. Cozy cottage warmly lit… the gentle lapping light of fire lit the windows of Hagrid's cabin.

Before he could explore, a small feminine figure ventured out from the cabin, making her way quickly to the castle, out of the rain. She slipped and he could faintly hear her swear. He didn't recognize her. He waited for a while; the minutes pulling by slowly as he listened to the forest and the gentle patter of rain mingle. The light beckoning him from the window hadn't gone out. George slipped from the branch with ease, landing on the wet moss carpeted ground. Perhaps Hagrid was back. George couldn't recall ever being as close to Hagrid as Ron or Harry, but the insuppressible urge to speak to someone from his past over took him. He had always been a familiar figure his entire life.

His knock was unanswered, so he pushed at the battered wooden door. The fire was lit and a teapot with mugs sat upon the table, forgotten. George walked in and picked up a mug. Tea dregs that had collected at the bottom spilt out as he over tipped the cup. He cursed and wiped the cold dregs from his fingers. He set the mug down with an air of defeat.

The slightest change of air tickled his ear. A sigh drifted from the corner of the room. George looked over to Hagrid's bed. Juxtaposed against the mounds of quilts was the lithe frame of graceful femininity. George was taken aback. His eyes followed the contours of her neck, shoulder, and the attractive concave of her waistline. He felt himself swallow hard, as if such a cliché response was hardwired into his system. He took it all in. Her sandals left neatly at the foot of the enormous bed, her cardigan draped carefully over the bedpost in her precise manner. It was unexpected to see her there and equally unexpected was the fondness he felt building up in his body.

It would have been best to leave. It would have been smart to leave, but he didn't. Perhaps he was simply tired of torturing himself. The constant self-inflicted isolation had worn him down, and Hermione's presence the past two days had brought him awareness. There was a sense of guilt as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Hermione was a loaded situation. There was Ron and the question of his whereabouts and Hermione's relationship with him almost made him stand back up.

But he was feeling selfish.

She shifted and muttered softly, the small, disconnected words hit the air between them delicately. She seemed so fragile then, a small china doll beneath the potential of his fingers. He took a breath and reached out, allowing his fingers to touch her hip. The bit of skin exposed to him. Her skin was painfully, breathtakingly white. He traced the waistband of her shorts, marveling at the small rim of simple blue cotton underwear present to him. From what he knew of her, the cotton panties were befitting. She sighed, and to his surprise, moved into his touch.

Emboldened, George slowly kicked off his shoes and with a soft creak of the bedsprings, settled down next to her. He became immersed in her smell and the warm heat that seeped into him from her small body. It had been depressingly long since he had last been this physically close to another human being. The contact was almost overwhelming, pulling George under and banishing any hesitancy he might have once held. Hermione shifted, adjusting instinctively to the added weight. She didn't wake up, even as George gently nudged her flush against his body.

He lay there for a while, marveling at the sensation of spooning against her body. George buried his face in her hair, breathing in deep and becoming aware of the ache in his groin. Reality became a distance environment as he became solely occupied with the physical sensation he was feeling. The skin of her stomach moved smoothly beneath his fingertips. He felt the rise of her ribcage, and then traced his hand back down to her navel.

"Hmm?" Hermione shifted onto her back and opened her eyes lazily. Heavily hooded blue eyes regarded him.

George felt his stomach lurch as doubts came racing back into his mind. She smiled a little and stretched, positioning herself comfortably against his chest. He released the breath pent up in his chest. It was a concoction of relief and heady excitement. He felt the groan reverberating in his chest and the last string of restraint snapped. He was kissing her, breathless at the impossible soft warmth of her mouth, the intimate smells of her breathlessness with his. Her response was even more intoxicating. She moaned, eyes fluttering, kissing him back.

Their lips met again and again, wet and leaving him with the sensation of need. His tongue met hers, the sensations of heat and taste causing him to press his hips against her. He left her mouth to caress her chin and jaw with his lips, sucking at the yielding skin of her throat. She mewed, barely audible sounds of pleasure vibrating from her throat into his lips. George's breathing was coming out in audible gasps as he grappled with his shirt. She complied as he pulled the jersey tee up and off her torso. The intensity increased, the intimate heat incredible when skin versed skin. He took in her bare body, the graceful hourglass hips curving to her chest and meeting the brown-laced bra. A shiver ran through her as he touched his lips to her stomach. He buried his fingers into her waistband, his thumb circling the metal buckle and zipper.

"George?" Hermione muttered, sleep clogging the clarity of her words.

"Hmm?" George ran a hand up her thigh.

"Ah," Hermione raised her hips as George pressed his thumb against the soaked warmth between her thighs. She gasped, inhaling deeply as her hips responded to his touch.

The buckle yielded easily to his fingers. George smiled in victory as he pulled the kaki shorts down, exposing the last cotton barrier. Hermione squirmed. He kissed the flesh above her panty line and deftly slid a finger between the cotton and into her. One swift motion that sent a crescendo of fire into his lions. He was vaguely aware of her moan, almost completely lost by the wet sensation enveloping that one blessed digit. He ran his thumb along the soft curls before circling the hard bead of her clit. She jerked, an enamoring yelp encouraging him forward. Completely entranced, George worked his hand, sliding another long finger into her. She was bucking now, her body greedily taking what he gave.

It was impressively wet as his fingers slicked in and out of her, drawing the moisture out from deep within. He felt as though he would scatter into particles, the attention his groin demanded was purely unbearable and he was gloriously, purely naked. The memory of removing his jeans was already a fading one. Slowly, her pulled her panties down and away. Positioned between her legs, George let out a shuddering moan. The head of his shaft slid against the lips of her, slick with her moisture. The urge to press in and to complete the union his body was demanding was nearly blinding him.

"Guh," Hermione bucked as he began to enter, surrounding the head with such warmth and pressure he thought he would become undone then and there.

Limbs shaking, he pulled out; afraid that it was almost over before it had barely begun. George looked at her then, the first time he made real eye contact with her since he joined her bed. She was looking at him, but too his astonishment, she wasn't. Her eyes held the distinct and distant look of someone still partially bound by sleep. He froze, the clouds of his joyous delirium clearing away, leaving him feeling cold and shaken. Suddenly the morality of what he was doing was cast into a shadow of doubt. Nausea gripped his stomach as he tried to ignore the still throbbing attention his body wanted. He weighed the dilemma he'd put himself in.

Slowly, painfully, George backed up. Fatigue rushed in and pulled at his head and shoulders, filling the spot the excitement had vacated. He was at a loss for what to do. He couldn't go through with it that much was clear. Yet, he couldn't leave either. He desperately didn't want to leave. He pulled at the covers and laid himself next to her, ignoring how hard he still was against the small of her back. A small fear rang in the back of his mind, wondering if sticking around for tomorrow and the awake Hermione was wise. He reflected in the silence of the cabin, listening to the steady rise and fall of her chest. She had gone back into deep sleep. Rain hit the window above them, random heavy pats as the storm outside picked up.

* * *

Let me hear what you think!!

Yours,

Peanut


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello. I know it has been forever... but hopefully this longer than normal chapter will appease the Updating Gods.**

* * *

**A Year **

**Part 3**

"Captains. We should weed them out through numerous tryouts," Oliver hit the table gently to enforce his point.

That seemed pretty obvious to George. However, he swallowed the snide comment and nodded his agreement. Discussing Quidditch at this particular moment was proving to be damned difficult. Damned difficult, indeed, when his attention was so completely divided. Perhaps he should just be grateful that he was alive. He should be praising an ancient god that he was seated unscathed in the newly done up Quidditch office. Sacrificing a goat over a golden bowl inlaid with jewels could not express how immensely relieved he had been this morning to wake up and find that Hermione was still profoundly asleep. George shook his head, marveling again over last nights events and Hermione's astounding, deep sleep abilities. He felt a nervous jolt smack his conscience. His actions last night had not been acceptable. He knew that. It had been wrong.

"...and you don't agree?" Oliver was looking at him with a deep frown that could only be borne from a deep passion over the subject.

"No! ...Yes, of course I agree. Sorry, mate," George felt himself scrambling to root himself in the present conversation. "I just need some more caffeine."

George rose and crossed the room over to the aged percolator, his boots hitting the floor in pronounced notes.

"We should agree in advance on criteria for the captains. It would be bad to have a disagreement amongst the Quidditch staff in the middle of the try outs," George supplied as he poured the invigorating drink. The heady sent of coffee did him good, evening his nerves out.

"Naturally. However, I did want to have this discussion when Harry arrived with the others," Oliver said, disappointment tinting his voice.

"Damned late, aren't they?" George sipped and then examined his cup. "Pink flower china isn't exactly the image we want for this year's Quidditch."

Oliver stared at the delicate cup and saucer George held in his hands. He frowned. Then he chuckled, a low warm series of notes that carried out from the depths of his chest and lightened the air in the office. George allowed himself a rare smile. That, in fact, had been a rare joke. A small joke, but a joke nonetheless. Dear God, he couldn't recall the last time he had even attempted a pass at humor. It felt good. George's opinion on laughter as of late had been that it was a betrayal. Laughter in the wake of Fred's death was the ultimate blasphemy and anyone who found cause to laugh was a heretic. Reflection on his joke led George to comprehend a number of other occurrences that, astonishingly enough, seemed to be happening in rapid succession. The laughter lessened the tightness in his shoulders, and he noticed that the room seemed lighter. Sun filtered in gently through the massive windows that overlooked the Quidditch pad. The brown leather arm chairs squatted over the ornate rug and basked warmly in the light. The soothing balm of calm touched him briefly. Like a hibernating beast awakened, Hunger suddenly uncoiled in his stomach, releasing a guttural sound that reached out into the room and settled in Oliver's ears.

As Oliver's laughter renewed, George leaned back against the percolator's roost, weakened. The sudden release from his usual dour, melancholy self left him shaken.

"Let me see if we can get some brunch brought over from the kitchens," Oliver said, exiting with amusement.

Quiet filled the room.

Odd. George allowed himself to sink into the soft leather of the nearest chair. It was very odd. The grief was still there, he could feel its constant tugging. Despite its presence, it felt dulled. A layer had developed between himself and the pain. It cushioned the blows the grief threw at him. George was unsure about how he felt about this. It had gotten to the point that remembering Fred and mourning were inseparable. They were one and the same and he could no longer tell the difference between the two. The sudden calm that coursed through his body seemed wrong. Was this leaving Fred behind? Was this doing Fred an injustice? George chewed at his thumbnail. The pat and sput of the percolator overcame the silence of the room. He sat and allowed it all to soak in. It was becoming apparent that it was a relief to be a step away from the grief. It was so incredibly nice to be able to reflect on it without the wrenching devastation that he would break in two.

If moving away from this was a disservice to Fred, George wasn't sure he could go back. Hunger had been renewed in George. Appetite to eat, to see things again, and to maybe, just possibly laugh again coursed through him. Another appetite sprung from the depths of his lions as he sat. Lust. He wanted that physical conquest again. Tasting Hermione's skin last night had broken his fast and now he realized, quite painfully, how much he craved that intimacy. He didn't know if she had done this to him intentionally. That kiss she'd taken from him by the lake had shaken him up. Her body last night had unraveled everything George had wrapped himself up in this past year. The memory made his body hot and George leaned back into the chair, the tension in his body channeling his imagination towards an inevitable outcome. He looked at the closed door, uneasy. Desire throbbed at him again and he surrendered, placing his hand gently over the trouser clad need that begged him.

This scared the shit out of him. She hadn't been in her right mind last night. George was sure that had she been truly awake she wouldn't have let him get as far as he had. Still, Hermione had responded to his touch. She had even called out his name. George felt his body lurch. Remembering the smell of her body and the slick feel of his fingers inside of her had George unbuttoning his fly. He paused, glanced at the door again, and moved his chair to face a more discreet direction. Despite the warmth of the room, the air felt cool against his now exposed shaft. George spat into his hand. Buttocks clenched, he couldn't stop the hiss that escaped his lips as his now moistened hand slid over the trembling head.

He would have entered Hermione slowly, taking his time. George pumped his hand, ran his thumb over his tip and back down again. Hermione would have cried out, he knew she would. Last night proved that the pleasure escaped from her lips in unrestrained moans and sighs. If he had had the bravado to keep going, George would have laid her on her stomach. His spare hand clenched the leather armrest, his knuckles turning white as he imagined each breathtaking thrust he'd make. The image of her sleek back, flaring out into each supple cheek, her flesh bouncing in response to his furious attentions had his breath leaving him in a heavy pant. How invigorating it would have been to be able to enjoy the choking sensation of her surrounding him become even tighter still as his thumb pressed into the tight pucker of her anus. She'd scream as he increased the pleasure. He would take her there too. In this fantasy Hermione would let him explore every orifice with aggressive passion.

George could feel his climax beginning to bud. The pressure was building below the shaft, ready to explode with each quick thrust of his grip. When he came, he would let himself spill over her back, admiring the way it would pool in the small concave just above the swell of her luscious rump. He shuddered and felt himself swell beneath his hand. He was so very, very close.

The figurative train derailed as George heard the doorknob click in the arrival of his companions.

"We were beginning to think you had died, Harry," Oliver was laughing again, clapping Harry Potter on the shoulder. George watched from his new, hasty perch by the window as three house elves scurried in with trays of finger sandwiches, cubed cheese, sausages, and a sweating pitcher of water. God, George could go for a glass of cold water.

"I lost track of time... my exam at the ministry is a few weeks away. Oh, I got an owl from Randolph Burrow, he got delayed in Germany on business. I owled back promising to fill him in on what we decide. No word from Cadwallader or any of the former Slytherin players McGonagall contacted."

"Bullocks... I did hear back from Gwendolyn Morgan. She'd be interested on doing a few workshops with the students. I told her it would give the Holyhead Harpies good publicity."

"Brilliant. So where were you before I arrived?" Harry asked as he clapped his hands together at the prospect of getting to work.

"George and I were just discussing plans for picking the captains," Oliver motioned over toward George and the spread of food that now awaited them.

Harry crossed the room and placed a firm hand on George's shoulder with intensity.

"It's good to see you, mate. How have you been?" Harry's green eyes were friendly, and with the friendly came the concern.

George did his best to ignore the irritation that came bubbling up from Harry's sympathy. Everyone was concern about him, and yet he hadn't done much to ease their worries. George instead focused on casually wiping away the bead of sweat tickling his temple.

"Good, Harry. I'm good... starving as hell, though."

They tucked into their lunch and the plans for Quidditch made in detail.

* * *

The curse exploded against the door frame with wrenching force.

"I told you, Hermione! I _told_ you. Nothing-NOTHING good comes from this damnable, god-forsaken place. You hear me?! FUCK YOU DUSSELDORF!!"

Hermione tuned Brenley out. Their attacker was hiding behind the spiral staircase. If she was quick...

"_CONJUNCTIVITIS!!"_

The wizard fell to the ground with a strangled yell. His eye sight damaged, the lunatic rattled off curses in every direction, screaming in a tongue she didn't recognize. Realizing what was to come, Brenley pulled her to the ground, attempting to cover her with her own pathetically small frame. The very air vibrated as an explosion tore the small book shop apart. The splintering of wood and the hideous screech of metal twisting stabbed at their ears. The incredible carnage deafened them. They cowered as the rafters fell about them, threatening to erase their lives from this earth with their lethal weight. Dust from the devastation clogged their nostrils, choked their throats. As their eyes watered, it clung to them in a thick paste.

There was silence.

Ragged gasping.

Brenley? No. It occurred to Hermione that the heaving came from her very own chest.

She felt Brenley's hot breath across her neck. They were alive.

"Bren... Brenley?"

She could feel her friend squirm against her, testing her body for injury.

"Nothing is broken. I still have my wand," Brenley grunted. Hermione felt weight lift off of them. Brenley had levitated the rafters that had almost been their end up and away.

The torn, splintered beams of wood rolled away from their miraculously intact bodies. Hermione looked up to see the slow descent of destroyed books. The damaged and torn parchment flittered down to the ground in a sad, erratic journey. The death throes of literature and knowledge. They sat there, watching the words and pictures fall. Every now and then the soft sound of paper would be jarred by the landing of empty binding. The carcass of books destroyed by the recklessness of man and magic.

The shop was gone. Destroyed. And to what sort of gain?

"Your hand," Brenley shook Hermione from her stupor. "Let me see it."

They were broken, her fingers, displaced and black and blue. The shock of it all left her without pain for a brief second. In that window of time she noticed her hand had become something she didn't recognize. A foul, clawed thing had replaced her left hand. It was the arm of a foreign creature. It was a creature that wasn't Hermione Granger. It wasn't the person she had grown into. This sort of thing wasn't meant to happen. He was dead, the evil was dead and gone. In all their years of fearing Voldemort, of praying that he would meet his end, she had never truly thought about the life after other than that it was supposed to be good. It was an idealistic place where pain didn't exist and where Ron and Harry hadn't left her.

They had left her.

They had left her.

The moment passed and the pain invaded her senses with such force that there was no stopping the hysteric sob that ripped out from her throat. Brenley held her. Hard, brutal, honest Brenley held Hermione's arm out and pointed her wand.

Through the hysteria Hermione knew of the further pain this would cause.

"NOnonononononono!!" She wailed.

"_Ferula."_

The spell set her fingers and bandaged them instantaneously. She heard and felt each of her fingers crack back into place. It was sickening. She vomited, expelling the pain, fear, disgust, and panic she had been storing up inside. Hermione felt Brenley place her hand on her trembling back. The tears were still flowing and she watched as they hit the ground beneath her, white from the plaster and dust coating her face. Spittle clung to her bottom lip in a thick, dangling thread. The burn of bile prickled at the back of her throat. The hysteria was gone, and in its place came shame. She drew in a deep, rattling breath.

"Thank you."

Brenley remained silent, only the tightening of her grip on Hermione's shoulder indicated that she understood.

Their search began.

Four hours later, the exhausted librarians walked up the steps to Hogwart's main doors, ragged from their efforts. Each woman held four volumes. Only one had been damaged by the explosion. It had almost been as if Fate was apologizing for their nearly fatal tango it had forced upon them. They had danced it well, survived, and Fate had bowed in respect. It had given them what they came for, but not without spite. They had searched and scoured every inch of the rubble and now they arrived with the fruits of their labor... and questions. Fruits and many. many questions. These were questions McGonagall would answer or, by God, she would quit. They silently climbed the stairs together, companions in their complete and utter exhaustion. The Head Master's office had never seemed so far a walk.

Talk filled their ears as Hermione knocked on the door. Men's voices, deep laughter, and McGonagall's stern, chiding voice the tenor in the chorus of conversation that permeated through the heavy wooden door. The voices stilled and she heard McGonagall's light footsteps tap across the stone floor.

"Oh.... m-my heavens!"

They were relieved of their load, chairs were brought, and Hermione felt the warm, coarse hand of a man guiding her by the elbow to her seat. It was Oliver. She smiled and sat shakily, heaving a sigh of relief. Brenley requested bourbon and they both received a generous glass of the smokey spirit with gratitude. McGonagall, Oliver Wood, and George Weasley sat in silence, watching as the women downed their drink. Hermione scrunched her face against the burn as it slid down her throat and settled in her stomach with a spreading warmth.

"As you can see, it didn't go well," Brenley started.

As Brenley began the tale, Hermione caught her reflection in the full-length mirror by Dumbledore's portrait. Fuck, she looked like shit. She looked like a ghost. They were still covered in grime and dust from the explosion. Her nose had bled, but in the panic from her broken digits, she hadn't noticed the stream of red that had split down over her mouth and onto her blouse. It had been one of her favorites, powder blue with white trim. It had been stupid to wear it in retrospect, but at the time she was dressing, the thought of looking good while going into danger had amused her. It was certainly ruined now, blood spattered and torn. Her hair was a matted, tangled mess. The violent black and blue of a deep bruise was spreading across her right cheek bone. It was amazing she had only broken her fingers. Her eyes were bloodshot from the distress. Despite her appearance, she felt calm. The bourbon was lessening the pain in her hand. She was feeling immensely glad to be back.

"He is dead, you are sure of it?" McGonagall asked, kneading her temples as she paced.

"Unless he wasn't the man that attacked us. His was the only body we were able to find in the aftermath," Brenley shrugged in a frustrated manner, helping herself to more spirits.

Hermione felt done with this for now. There was time.

"Professor. I'm going to clean up, I'm going to eat, and then I'm going to rest. When I am done, I will come back and we will talk," Hermione said, addressing her former professor of 8 years for the first time in such a firm, commanding way. She would not budge on this.

McGonagall nodded.

"I will be here when you are ready, Miss Granger."

Hermione rose, noticing the white imprint she left on McGonagall's fine arm chair. George opened the door for her. Hermione gave him a hard look. Oh yes, they would have to have a chat as well.

* * *

The Lord be praised for Hogwarts well endowed baths. She had taken liberties with the soap tonight. The small pool was filled with large, massive white suds and she delighted in the fact that she could float atop of them. Time had slipped by and Hermione had no recollection of how long she had been in the bath. All that seemed to occur to her was that she didn't plan on moving anytime soon. Brenley had come and gone. Drunk. Each had their own way of coping with stress. Brenley had kept her head today when everything had fallen apart, Hermione refused to judge her now in her inebriated state. Hell... they hadn't even gotten through the door before a killing curse had hit the picture frame next to her head and ricocheted out the window.

Hermione could only frown. It was incomprehensible. Why attack so violently and without provocation? The only answer Hermione could settle herself with was that there were other forces at work she was unaware of. She would get the answers she sought, or she would leave. It was simple as that. There were other places in this world she could go. She could travel. She certainly had no obligation to stay here and be a pawn. She could leave.

.... No. She couldn't.

Hermione couldn't leave knowing that there were answers she could discover. She couldn't leave when the library she had so cherished growing up was in shambles. So she was obligated to stay. If not for McGonagall, she owed it to that library. That place of quiet, order, and knowledge had been her sanctuary. She couldn't catch the scent of aged parchment without being teleported back to a time when her school jumper kept her warm from the winter drafts and stacks of books floated overhead on paths to their appropriate place. She could recall with tenderness the whispers of other students, their sleep-deprived sighs after an evening of studying. The scratch of the quill taking notes would tickle her ears and assure her that, yes indeed, everything was okay. Everything was in order and this was a world she had her footing in.

There was a more pressing matter at hand.

How could she leave when she had unfinished business with George Weasley? Yes, George Weasley. She had woken to such a sense of confusion this morning. Hermione would have betted anything that the ginger-headed fool would still be tucked by her side when the morning light crept in through Hagrid's window. Her next rational thought was that it had all been a dream. A very sensual, erotic dream borne from her own sexual frustrations. Okay, she was nude. She had been in such deep throes over her dream that she had shed her own clothes. It was understandable that she could disrobe in her sleep, despite the fact that she had never had the habit of doing so. There was a first time for everything. Then she noticed the pale orange hair on the pillow. She did not have orange hair. Hagrid did not have orange hair. A quick perusal of her skin in Hagrid's comically tiny shaving mirror proved her suspicions to be true. Love marks, all over her neck. Such bruising did not occur on its own. Hermione healed the bruising with a wave of her wand. That little sneak.

She should be furious. Such behavior!

Then again, Hermione certainly hadn't stopped him. If anything, she had initiated this whole situation. She had kissed him, after all. She had kissed him and wanted more. It was the want that surprised her the most. She didn't even understand what she had expected to happen. It was by pure impulse that she had done it. George had such a haunted, feral look about him now. It was a far cry from the mischievous, joyous man she remembered. Hermione had to admit to herself, as handsome and attractive she had found the old George to be, this new George incited such a blatant wanting it couldn't be ignored. George was sex, and that was what Hermione wanted. She didn't care that it was Ron's brother.

Seriously.

Ron had left. What sort of loyalty did she owe him now? Harry had also left, but Harry she found easier to forgive. He had left in a different sense of the word. Harry and Ginny had gone into their own world after all the funerals. A wedding shortly followed, and those that were left after the carnage were all too happy to throw themselves into a joyous event for once. Ron never showed. Hermione reflected on Ginny's indignation at her brother's absence. Perhaps it is a good thing no one knows where he is. Ginny would surely maim him. Harry would most likely be approaching the completion of his Auror training. Hermione had heard through the grapevine that Mrs. Weasley was already pressing for a grandchild. Honestly. They were barely 19. A grandchild would not replace the two sons she had lost. One son taken by death's cold grip and the other to apparent wanderlust.

Hermione stood and waded over to the taps. Twisting the third handle from the right reduced her suds-filled bath to clean, fresh water. She submerged and swam to the opposite side. Rinsed clean and lightly perfumed, Hermione took the liberty to forgo magic and dried herself with one of the school's towels. If Ron ever decided to reappear, she would not be taking him back. She had forgiven that fool far too many times.

She prepared herself, for she had plans. Brenley released her stress through the bottle. Hermione would release hers through other means.

George ignored the nagging sense of panic he felt every time his thoughts drifted towards Hermione Granger. What a frightful woman she could be. He would never forget the sight of her coming into the Head Master's office, white, beaten, and bloodied. Her job in the library obviously entailed more than one would assume. He settled back on his bed and toyed with the buckle of his belt. They needed to fuck. The weighted meaning in the look she had given him a few hours before told him that much. He considered the possible ways of approaching her now. George wasn't fooling himself, Hermione remembered the pervious night.

The irony of the situation was not lost on George as he heard the door open.

She hadn't bothered to knock. She didn't bother talking either. George met her halfway across the room. Their mutual understanding was finalized as Hermione let the robe slip from her shoulders. George took in her bare form before slowly reaching out and grabbing her injured hand. He kissed each finger softly. She smiled and moved in for the kill. She took his mouth forcefully, biting his lower lip so hard he tasted blood. It threw fuel to the fire and in a blurred movement George had her pinned against the door, slamming it shut with her body. He was ravenous, grinding his still clad erection against the moist, bare flesh she offered. He could already imagine himself buried deep within her. George twitched, slamming the door with his fist, he stopped himself. He was terrified, terrified that he would come in his pants if he kept up the frenzied pace Hermione had set.

George growled, Hermione played with his lips with her tongue. She moved down, gave his chin a soft lick. George cried out. It was an unintelligible sound, bordering on what could have been a word that got lost in a wild groan as Hermione gripped him through his trousers. She slid down his body and crouched. He flung his shirt off, allowing her to reach up to trail a soft hand along his chest. She fingered a puckered nipple, causing all the muscles in his abdomen to contract. She kissed the soft, orange fuzz below his navel and George had to brace himself against the door with both hands. He watched through hooded eyes as she pulled at the buckle and brought down the zipper with her teeth. Her breath was so warm against his skin. His cock jumped against the gentle touch of her fingers. Weakened, George breathed in heavily through his nose. Control. He didn't want to reach completion so soon.

He could only watch helplessly as Hermione examined his body. She ran her fingers over his head, rubbing the opening where a salty bead of excitement had formed. The moisture grew, leaking over and down along his shaft. She followed with her fingers, letting her nails run through the coarse hair that encompassed the soft sacks of his testicles. She squeezed. And that was that. He came with such a force his knees buckled. Barely able to keep himself standing, George watched as he covered Hermione. It traveled in thick streams down the curves of her breasts. He felt particularly enamored with the glob on her chin, clinging to her lower lip. The elation faded quickly. It was over and now he felt the awkward tide of regret begin to wash through him.

Hermione remedied that instantly. He felt embarrassed by the how loud he had become, but there was no stopping his yelp of surprise as Hermione began to suckle on the head, lapping up the cum he had just spent. He closed his eyes and savored the slick sensation of her tongue traveling along his length, teasing and then gently sucking on each swollen sack. When she took him into her mouth completely, his eyes rolled back. He couldn't resist the urge to watch and looked down to see the most erotic sight he had ever beheld. He watched as his cock disappeared into the depths of her mouth, her lips taut against him. Her hair swayed with the bobbing of her head. George felt the pressure building in him once again as she snaked a sweaty hand around to cup the clenching muscle of his buttocks.

The need to touch overcame him and George roughly grabbed both sides of her head, digging his fingers into the thick locks of her hair. He felt heat prickle across his body as the intensity increased. She clung to him tightly as George began thrusting his hips, his swelling need, deeper and deeper into the sweet ecstasy of her mouth. She gagged. He kept going, groaning each time he hit the soft back of her throat. It was coming now, the second orgasm about to rip out anything he had left.

"Please.... Hermione, I want..."

She knew what he wanted and answered by adding her tongue to the intoxicating rhythm in her mouth.

"Fuck.... FUCK!" George spilt forth, the overwhelming pleasure blanked his mind and for a split second, George Weasley saw nothing but white. Hermione sucked on him gently as his body shuddered. Her throat bobbing as she swallowed, slowly, his seed.

His mouth dry, George weakly reached back, found the bed post, and tripped over his pants onto the bed. Exhaustion clung to the sides of his vision as he watched Hermione gather her robe about her, concealing the smooth skin she had been all to willing to share moments before. She smiled.

"You owe me one."

And then she was gone, leaving George alone with his thoughts.

* * *

**As always your feedback is precious!! Let me know what you think, dear readers.**

**peanut**


	9. Chapter 9

**So... this story is becoming much more complex and darker than I anticipated. I intended for about 4 chapters but now I realize that I want to keep going. I'm going to bring in more characters and plot twists. If you are confused, thats okay, there are still a lot of unanswered questions with this story, but they will be resolved... eventually. This chapter really drops this into a more serious level. A caution for those with more delicate constitutions, there is rape in this chapter. **

* * *

**A Year**

**Part 4**

Hermione observed the German newspaper on McGonagall's desk.

"I understand your need for answers, Miss Ganger."

Hermione nodded.

"Unfortunately, I am unsure of how many I actually have an answer to," McGonagall stood from her chair, lifted up the newspaper and opened it with a decisive snap.

Hermione Ganger watched this new Head Master cautiously. She trusted her. She trusted McGonagall's intentions, and up until this moment Hermione had trusted McGonagall's ferocious intelligence. Hermione was no fool. She knew that today she would only get half truths. Fragments, at best. Hermione bit down on the frustrated scream that clamored to be released from her throat. Half truths would do them no good.

"Professor... Head Master, please, tell me what is going on," Hermione attempted to put as much conviction into her voice and eyes as possible, straining to reach the knowledge behind McGonagall's curtain.

She was rewarded. McGonagall placed the creased newspaper into her hands, folded open at the fated page. Hermione watched as the photograph scanned over the destruction yesterday's mission had caused. Hermione bit her lip, much to her discomfort, the bewitched photograph showed Brenley clamber over the rubble, pulling Hermione up into sight. Hermione didn't know which had been worse, the actual explosion or the horrible, disquieting fact that no one emerged from the surrounding buildings to investigate. It had been a ghost town, the only person in sight had been the dead man, peering out from underneath splintered wood and metal. She exhaled slowly. They had evidently been wrong. Someone had been watching. The evidence grinned up at her wickedly from the newsprint.

"Do you speak German?" McGonagall asked, seating herself slowly into the spartan comfort of her chair.

"No."

"_Britain's Hogwarts Quest for Dominance Leads to Destruction of Germany's Greatest Literary Treasures,_" McGonagall recited. She closed her eyes and let out a tired, weary sigh. It escaped from her in a dry rush, leaving the old woman looking winded. The stuffy air of the office solidified as Hermione stared at the Head Master, seeing and blind simultaneously.

"Dominance?"

"Yes, Dominance. Do you see it?"

Hermione stood, the sudden action sent her chair scraping back against the stone floor. Realization bludgeoned Hermione with such brutality, that for the second time in 48 hours, hysteria had her in its tight, coiling fingers. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on McGonagall's desk. She counted her breaths and focused on the pale white of her fingers peeking out from the bandages as they grasped at the weary wooden surface.

"Going to Dusseldorf was playing directly into their hands. I knew it, but they had quite eloquently danced me into a corner. Those books are of no great use, but I wanted to force their hand. I wanted to see what they were planning in relation to this school. I couldn't let them have that advantage and in the attempt to remove the element of surprise from their fingers, we gave them an even greater one. I'm sure that you have already figured as much, you were always one of the brightest," McGonagall said all this into her hand, refusing to look up at Hermione's panicked eyes.

"All this time, we were focusing on Voldemort. He was the ultimate evil, the destruction of all we knew and loved, and we feared him. We feared him so completely, that it became our blindfold. We forgot that there was a world outside of our islands. We forgot that others are indeed capable of the cunning Voldemort possessed... and it never occurred to us that there was more. Dumbledore was so wrapped up in the guilt he felt over Tom Riddle that he never saw. I never saw... they played us all as fools. Such fools..."

Hermione swallowed... she tried to swallow but her throat had run as dry as a bleached bone.

"The Germans, what are they planning exa-," Hermione attempted to piece together the fragmented understanding that clattered about in her skull.

"No, child! It is not the Germans," McGonagall barked in a laugh containing such potent bitterness that Hermione fell back into her chair.

She felt herself pale.

"This is bigger than merely two nations. It is bigger than Europe and the UK. I can only guess at how many other nations have been caught up in this vile web. The most frightening thing, more frightening than not knowing how far this has spread, is that despite all my observations, I do not know who they are. They are hidden, pulling strings that I barely have time to see before it is too late."

"What do they want?"

McGonagall rose and went to the window. Silence. Hermione ignored the nausea that bubbled up inside, threatening to retch forth onto the office floor. She wanted it to be over. It was supposed to be over and Hermione felt herself balk at the idea that Voldemort was just the tip of it all. After the horrors he had brought down upon them, imagining that there was worse yet to come... No. She simply couldn't fathom it.

"Enough of this charade, Hermione Granger. Bringing you here for the sake of the Library is a ruse. I need you. You specifically. Thanks to Voldemort, you are well known enough to merit their attention. You are brilliant. Most importantly, you are a tool, a tool they plan on using... Heaven knows they've already used me."

"Harry! What about Harry? He has become a symbol for the wizarding Britain. They will certainly use him," Hermione surmised, her voice sounded pathetically faint against the heavy atmosphere of the room. She wanted to turn this away from her. Let them focus on Harry. Please.

"Hermione," McGonagall turned. Hermione felt sweat prickle at her brow. She gave her a square look. "Hermione. I think they plan on assassinating Harry Potter."

Hermione blinked..

"That is why I have him here. I thought, perhaps erroneously, that bringing Harry to Hogwarts once again can save his life."

She shuddered, humbled.

"Oh, Professor... I-I don't understand!" Hermione cradled her head in her hands.

"He is our nation's pride. They will break us through his death. They will humiliate us."

McGonagall was standing by her now. Hermione heard the words, desperately wishing that they wouldn't make sense. She didn't want the answers anymore. She wanted to deny it all, ignore it all, and go back to attempting to carve out a normal life. Hermione looked at the floor through blurring eyes, watching the tears hit her shoes, discoloring the leather. She heard McGonagall's words. It was impossible not too. It was impossible to not grasp the fundamental fact McGonagall was trying to tell her.

"They want to bring the world to war," Hermione said at last. The admission felt like a betrayal to all that she wanted. It betrayed everything she had striven for in the past year.

"Yes. They want it all to crumble and through the chaos they plan on taking control."

"How have you figured all of this out? " Hermione looked at McGonagall, feeling desperation so deep it ached.

The Head Master merely gave her a sad, tortured look.

"So I am your tool, as well?" Hermione hated the tears that wetted her shirt. She hated the goose-flesh that ran along the back of her neck and down to her arms.

"Yes, Miss Granger. Yes, you are."

sssssssssssssssssssssss

Ronald Weasley ran his fingers along the soft, embroidered edge of the cushion. Life had betrayed him. It had never been immensely kind to Ron, but now he had lost all hope in it. The air was thick with incense, Lord how he hated the stuff now. It filled his nostrils, leaving him dizzy and helpless. Ron gripped the cushion, foolishly seeking solace in the feeble fabric as he felt his touch. The rough pads of his fingertips traveled up young Weasley's thigh, lingering on the jut of his hip bone. Ron wanted to ignore how utterly and devastatingly naked he was. He cursed himself. There was no measuring the regret he felt for leaving Britain, for leaving his friends. He had made things so much worse by leaving.

"Ronald... Ronald, I want you to look at me when I touch you," he laughed, kneading Ron's chest with long, thick fingers.

His voice rumbled deep into Ron's body, making him quiver. How had this even come to be? The arms that turned him towards his captor were strong. Ron had always been tall, built with a proper solidity, but this man made him feel so small. So, so small. He was large man, in every unfortunate sense of the word. Ron couldn't bare to look into the pale eyes that mocked him. The feel of the man's black, choppy beard against his throat repulsed him almost as much as his lips, wet and sloppy against his throat.

"What fortune, Ronald, that I have permission to break you this way," he whispered, his breath rushing against Ron's ear in sickening want.

He rolled a finger through the sparse hair on Ron's chest. His body twitched against the man's arms as he tweaked a nipple. Ron would not scream, despite what this beast did to his body. Ron was completely at another's mercy, but he could resist in small ways. Over time they might add up. He closed his eyes. He didn't want to look as filthy fingers worked their way into his hair.

"This look suits you better. Long, rugged... my, you even have a bit of scruff on your chin. That short, trimmed look never suited you when we were in school," he teased, nipping at Ron's jaw line.

He took his mouth in a violent kiss. Ron gagged against the assault of his tongue. He struggled against his binds, unable to escape the cruel softness of an enemies mouth.

"Look at me... look at me."

Ron wouldn't. He expected to be struck, to have his body beaten, but he would not look. Ron, in his innocence, could not have expected the intruding finger, sliding up and into his most intimate place. Despite his resolve, Ron looked, eyes wide and body trembling at the intrusion. He looked up at his wide set eyes, his dark hair, the high cheekbones that led down to tangled facial hair and malicious, intimidating lips. He barely recognized him. Ron's eyes fell over the man's large shoulders and every curve the muscle made. His barrel of a chest boasted more hair than Ron could ever hope to grow. Ron wished he didn't know, that he hadn't recognized the man for who he was. He followed the muscled arm down to where his hand disappeared behind his genitals, to where his fingers had entered his body. He whimpered, thoroughly shaken.

"I am going to hurt you. Every sweet little inch of you, my friend," his voice came out as a purr.

A predatory grin. He pumped his finger deeper inside and bent to suck on a nipple, pulling the tender flesh roughly into his mouth. Ron was gasping for air, each desperate breath shakier, more ragged than the last.

"Please!" Ron begged, his resolve cracking.

"Oho! So soon? We've barely started!" he laughed, retrieving his hand and flipping Ron onto his stomach. "I need to take your virginity, little Ronald."

"I'm not a virgin!" Ron screamed against the cushions, rage temporarily choking out his fear.

He laughed.

"I'm not talking about your willie," he said, reaching around his body to tug lightly at his length. Ron bristled at the contact, furious at the rush of blood that had his shaft hardening. His captor took a moment to palm and stroke with a skilled hand, working Ron into a state of miserable bliss.

"Stop! STOP!" Ron bellowed, reaching climax. Self-loathing poured into Ron's soul as he split his seed out onto the sheets.

Ron quaked in horror as the man reach out, touching Ron's essence on the bed.

"Good boy," he purred. Ron heard a wet, sticky sound and realized that he was covering his own cock with Ron's seed.

"Now," he said, giving Ron's rump a hard smack. Ron choked back a terrified sob, hating himself for his weakness, for allowing this monster to bring him to orgasm. He felt hard pressure against the tight pucker of his ass. He panicked, knowing that his violation was about to reach a new level. Weight encompassed him as his tormentor laid down on top of him, stretching his opening with the tip, plunging in slowly, barely. He kissed the back of his neck, grinding his hips against the tight resistance of Ron's body. He did not sheath himself completely, toying with Ron's fear.

"W-why?" Ron choked against the fabric of the bed. Tears began to hinder his vision as he watched the man twine his fingers around Ron's bound wrists.

"Because you are going to do what we want, but," he grunted, forcing himself deeper, halfway in. "Like any good workhorse, I have to break you. Humiliation always works best with your kind."

With a moan of satisfaction, he slammed in, slick with Ron's bodily betrayal. He laughed maniacally, thrusting in wild, merciless abandon.

"Your self-righteousness makes me sick! You, Potter, and that fucking MudBlood! How does it feel Gryffindor? How does it feel to be fucked by a Slytherin, eh?" he shouted over the agonized screams. "Say my name!"

"NO!"

"Come on now, you know it," he teased, never breaking from the ripping speed of his attack.

"Nononono..no," Ron attempted to hold on to some last shred of dignity, sobbing the word for all he was worth.

"Hearing my name will help me finish quickly, darling," he moaned, enjoying the sound of slapping skin. His thrusts became all the more brutal. Blood was the evidence of his cruelty. "Say it!"

He broke.

" Goyle! GOYLE!"

As he screamed, Ron wished he would just die.

* * *

**Okay.... deep breath. What did you think? I take all advice. If you like it, let me know. If you hate it, let me know as well.**

**-peanut**


End file.
